She sat, as one long since unspoken,
in rooms where names and time lie broken.
The window, cracked—its breath was cold,
the tree beyond, a tale untold.
It once wore leaves like whispered sin,
but nothing stays that dares begin.
They fell, like thoughts she tried to keep—
a rain of things too sharp to weep.
The bloom came next—a cruel jest,
beauty dressed for death’s behest.
Petals broke like promises said
by those who kiss and still have fled.
Seasons spun, but never called;
the world moved on—she only stalled.
The rain, the bloom, the fall, the green—
and she, unchanging, caught between.
No voice, no knock, no lover’s plea—
just echoes drinking endlessly.
Her room, once warm with breath and light,
now stooped beneath the weight of night.
She turned at last, not out but in—
to seek the source of all her din.
But silence met her halfway through,
and showed her truths she never knew.
They’d left not sudden, not in rage—
just slipped between the lines of age.
Their cups, untouched. Their scents, long gone.
She’d loved them once. But they moved on.
The tree still stands, but knows her not.
Its roots forgot the name she thought.
No flame arrived. No voice. No sign.
She faded slow—by her design.
No tragedy, save that of breath
held far too long in rooms of death.
She lived. She waited. Then became
a shadow watching leaves the same.
YOU ARE READING
Rubynk Collection
PoetryA treasury of poems bled in raw ink and truth, where each line is a cry, a prayer, or a shard of reality etched deep into the soul's canvas.
