On The Old Bench

On this old bench, how many times I've sat,

and told it that life is a story; 

mystifying to grasp.


The colors of the flowers around me

changed with my every glance,

and with their hues, my feelings were taken

 to a different dance.


​Sometimes I had a friend to share the view.

Other times, I kept my own company through.


I’d speak of those who sat beside me then,

or dream of far-off places, beyond my ken.


​Sometimes I longed to be that patch of green;

a part of nature, vibrant and serene.


Then I would yearn for different soils to grow,

to find new roots where other breezes blow.


​This lonely bench, saw how my seasons changed,

and it witnessed how I rearranged 

my thoughts.



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