A lore


ImageThus the story goes,

As the windmill blows,

I rewind just so that I could row,

With this solitude on a caste away shore .

I mumble to myself ,

As the tired Tyre floats

Of the varied beauty and of gore.

About the times I smiled across to you from the kitchen shelf.

The wine was merrier,

And so was the lore ,

I perch on the pinnacle and sow,

That shallow sense of freedom ,

That I forever lust for.

This quest to break away ,

From the season and from change ,

I whistle away patiently ,

Underneath all the humdrum,

While my smile remains,

Like those lost pearls that I forever wore.


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