The Dust That Waits To Perish

By Abhyuday Kiran Hadal

Folly is the name my love for you has been;

For the flower I submit to you wilts;

The love which withstood the test of time,

Now begins to fade by the waft;

How glorious was the flower;

A true ink let of thy love;

That same flower thus withers;

So does my love;

For the person who owns a garden of flowers;

One is indifferent,

The myriad of flowers that fawn o’er you;

Are all but incapable to wield pollen;

And the one that that did, shrivels in a corner,

Yearning to be noticed;

Someone shall tell it one day that you weren’t worth it;

Until then wait;

Wait for the remnants of pollen to be blown away.

By Abhyuday Kiran Hadal