Pages of life turn one by one,
Torn and tattered with time,
Folded with love umpteen times,
Telling a new tale.
And some torn off in anguish,
Scattered trails in wisps of time,
Blown away by stormy tempests,
But the lacuna remains,
The tale incomplete.
The recesses hold dried blossoms,
That imprint memories of vernal love and hue,
A delicate lingering fragrance,
A cache of what you once loved.
A trellis of memories,
Traversing the tale in wanton abandon,
As you reach the pages last,
Deliberating the end,
Wondering if what was could be more different,
May be the tale would take a different turn,
And the story would be what you wanted it to be.
Life takes its own course,
A silent spectator,
Just let it drift by.