Slowly the sun rises, climbing the heavens,
Spreading the promise of a beautiful day,
Yet on the horizon dark clouds grow,
Trying to turn it into a lie.
On a bench side by side sit a couple,
Crooked, bent and decrepit with age.
Taking the old mans hand,
The old woman holds it to her chest.
They look deeply into each others eyes,
Seeing themselves reflected.
A promise of a smile plays upon her lips,
Only to drift away with sorrow and lie upon the ground.
Gently kissing his hand,
She averts her eyes, misty with tears,
The lie hidden in a promise.
Softly she poses a question, barely audible upon the ear.
Memories of vows of promises,
Youthfully made upon rings of binding,
Signed upon paper of flimsy making.
Old mans eyes lovingly weep,
Upon a moment of happiness.
Openly both do shed, reasons different.
With slow deliberation, hands do part.
Slowly he opens his hand,
Frozen his eyes do stare,
Aghast, horrified, utterly disbelieving.
The sun glints off a cylinder, worn with age.
Clutching his heart in emotional pain,
His eyes askance, follows her rise.
Realisation of a promise now turned to lie.
Ring clatters upon the paving,
As pleading hand searches hers,
With cold certainty, she retracts,
Withdraws away upon aching legs,
Bourne upon a promise of conclusion.
Sun burns upon a scene of dereliction,
Where a partner looks upon worn gold,
Caught within the crags of crumbling paving.
A tear falls upon the ring,
Picked up by worn fingers,
Pressed upon a cracked heart,
As an epiphany saunters over...
A promise is but a lie waiting to be fulfilled.
Another weave added to a belief,
That believing a promise cannot be kept,
Destroys the fabric of mans morality,
By festering another lie about promises...