The Empty Bench

   

                          

                           There are no children in the park,

                                    Haven’t been for many years…

                                    There is also an empty bench,

                                    Drenched in its invisible tears…

                                    When the sun comes up,

                                    And till the moon goes down

                                    There’s no one but me,

                                    In this lonely old town.

 

                                    I am a ghost,

                                    Invisible to most…

                                    This park is my home,

                                    Under a clear,

                                    But star draped dome.

                                    I’ve never seen a cloud,

                                    It never rains here…

                                    Maybe I like it this way,

                                    But lovers don’t hold this dear…

                                    But my favorite,

                                    Is what lies just close to the fence.

                                    As I call it,

                                    The empty bench.

                                    It looks royal,

                                    It looks strong…

                                    But for him,

                                    There is no one to admire,

                                    No one to write a song.

 

                                    I try to fend off his misfortune,

                                    But what am I after all,

                                    Just a smoke, an odourless fume.

                                    I wonder how old is he?

                                    Has he always been idle?

                                    Or has he ever been busy…

                                    He never replies,

                                    He's always there, a loner,

                                    But he always cries…

                                    He never feels my touch,

                                    But he slowly dies…

                                    Because it’s always the farewell that hurts,

                                    That never ending wish,

                                    For the one last communion,

                                    Is the one which slows down the pulse…

                                    One can only ever lose,

                                    If one only ever had...

                                   

                                    But who am I after all,

                                    I am a ghost,

                                    Invisible to most…

                                    And this park is my home.

                                    Under a star draped dome…

                                   

 

                                   

                                   

 

 

                                   

                                   

                                   

                       

 

          

                                                          

Author's Note

I hope you like this....Your reviews are most welcome.