Diary1 min 132 1 min 132
Have turned sepia the pages
Of his diary, with accretion of time.
Words are besmirched with numbness,
Their depth has drowned into shallowness.
He desperately rubs the pages,
Pines for those words to speak-
Dead they're, draped in muteness;
His heart is heavy with hollowness.
Why should he weep-
No tear melts a heart of stone.
His love was indeed boundless;
Hers an epitome of futile promises.
Though the diary harbors their old love,
His was a love story time couldn't love.