I am done with things, or so I thought,

But the echoes of life still tug at my heart.

Love feels like a distant shore,

A place I’ve touched but reach no more.

Isolation wraps me, a heavy embrace,

Yet in its silence, I find my space.

The world spins on, but I stand still,

A wanderer bound by my own will.

The pen in my hand is my guiding light,

A sword against the endless night.

With each stroke, I etch my pain,

Transforming sorrow into refrain.

I return to the lake where time once froze,

Where the water mirrored dreams I chose.

The bench where laughter danced on air,

Now holds only the weight of despair.

The coffee shop, where mornings bloomed,

Now feels like a flower that’s lost its perfume.

The chairs are empty, the cups are cold,

Memories linger, but the stories are old.

I walk the streets where my shadow grew,

Where joy and grief both painted their hues.

The trees remember, the skies still know,

The secrets I whispered long ago.

I cried beneath those ancient boughs,

Where the wind would cradle my furrowed brows.

Its touch was tender, a fleeting balm,

A moment of peace, a fleeting calm.

The Dargah, a haven where I would kneel,

Pouring out prayers I could barely feel.

The candles flickered, their light so faint,

A mirror of my soul’s restraint.

Yet, in these places, something remains,

A thread of hope within the pain.

The wind still sings, the trees still sway,

The world persists in its quiet way.

So I walk, I write, I bare my soul,

Each word a fragment, making me whole.

The ink flows steady, a river untamed,

Carving out truths I once disclaimed.

The journey stretches, a road unbound,

Through empty streets and sacred ground.

No final chapter, no end in sight,

Just a life unfolding, word by word, night by night.

For in this solitude, I’ve come to see,

The pen and the page are enough for me.

Let the story grow, let the verses soar,

For this is my life, and I’ll ask for no more.

#write #story