The season of love passed, in its riding folly in silent footsteps that creeped,
Into the hind of the mind, the dart of amor struck, striking its love portion too deep
I was blinded by the fleeting trail, one that left me blind,
To the tiny bounds of affections I asked for, yet I was left strayed behind.

Maybe the song of spring galloped in its tune, but I missed its glance,
Maybe the truth sang in its deciduous rhythm, but I was enclothed in your decivious dance. 
I searched for the gift of affection in the wrong places, begging to see its sight in your eyes,
Knowing I was asking for the bare minimum, yet I was riding on a fallacy that in forgery lies.

Shaking hands, broken heart, bloodshot eyes, I stared at the mirror in all bareness,
Yearning for a lover’s embrace, I could see the truth amidst all the brokenness
I was too deprived of real affection that even poison fed to me looked like heaven’s solace,
Shattered on the kitchen floor, I picked up the pieces of my torn heart, bleeding its trace.

The silence of the morning after seeped into the slowness of my breaths,
Pouring into the incessant precipice of gloom, the sunlight brought life to my dead.
I embraced the nothingness of the present, knowing we are not meant to be,
I deserve love that feels like home, not fleeting glances of beckoned glee.
I no longer look for love, because I know there is an abundance of it inside me,
One that feels like home, one that shows how radiant life can really be.

.    .    .