Like a weak fleeting ray of light in a uncertain dusk.
It’s gone.

Like a faint trace of perfume in a stranger’s lounge.
It’s done.

Like a dying echos of a forlorn love song in a windy afternoon.
It’s home.

It’s all transient.
It’s Fleeting and momentarily.
But this abrupt end like a wanton period at the end of unwilling sentence is sure jarring to this self.

It’s all gone.
And only remnants of yesterday’s desires and wishes are left in this blazing labyrinth of scattered sentiments.

Was the thought for reeling real?
Or was it just a reverie?

© Copyright 2011  Ayoub Mzee


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