"* I met her two years back in a park,
I swear it was she, who approached me first!
Don't know if it was an excuse or coincidence,
We were sitting opposite,
She basking in the sun, reading for fun...
I too reading... but with a seriousness too deep to notice nature...
Then she suddenly approaches me and says,
Hey!!* You are reading the same book as me,
I glanced up in surprise (or was it 'awe'?)...
and notice her holding up the same book,
Paulo Coelho's 11 minutes...
and I smiled but before I could say anything,
she squeaked, "Guess even you like books with **** things",
and I finally finding my senses, exclaimed...
"It's a Coelho Classic. **** things are better in real"
We became friends and met now and then,
but to cut things short...
One year later,
It was few days shy of august,
We were holding hands,
walking around the plaza,
when she suddenly drags me into a dark corner,
looks me into the eye
and then breaks into a tight hug,
She leaves me surprised with an intense kiss,
my mind dizzy, and we let go of eachother
as the city lights become dim...
Two years later,
I thought nothing could go wrong,
I was married to her and was working in a top post,
but destiny had thought something else for me,
I didn't know how things ended up like this...
I was on my knees,
and there were hundreds people running opposite of me,
Red and blue lights discoed in front of my eyes,
Sirens and announcements filled up my mind,
Only men dressed in black and blue came towards me,
They had shields and protective gears,
they had formed a circle around me.
My girl was crying about 300 meters away,
held up by these dressed men,
crying for me I guess.
I noticed that I was all wired up in a mess,
a machine tied to me ticking,
and I only sweating...
Two men with a toolbox ran towards me,
they were observing my torso,
No, maybe that ticking machine...
And all I could do was look at my crying girl,
and wonder if she would...
if she would, for the last time,
Hold me tightly... "
- © OutcastDreamer
This poem has been inspired from a newspaper article... Which has been altered by my imagination...
Few want to see all this red blood spill while most of us, write poems with blue ink.
