The Racer

On the horizon love seems to rock with gently billowing clouds,

The many forms of clouds instill in him hope for love-light,

In this city destined to be Paradise lurks the widows’ son,

Looking for love of the famed urn,

That Angelina besought a mercurial sky,

With the chirping of birds on bent trees folding out pansies,


He felt a surge of tide rushing and cutting the traffic between half,

As if a spirited run of cherished racer gathers glory of the sun,

There is a habitual silence at Angelina’s doors in the mall,

The people would come and pass as with rioting frolic of the mob,

Yet their silence confirm the intentions to be quite and mum,

When he parked his bike there in front of the garden and many run,

To see the bike he had ridden with daily pittance of a saint,

And she opened the window to glance at the garden,

And into his heart, the widow’s son has got a chance,

The famed racer of bikes,


Sun soaked wetness of forlorn flowers,

Dangling merely to tell pain of the presenter’s heart,

And he mocked fave airs about her in a guess of pantomime,

She shied to tell mere distance that held them apart,

And soon they came close, close enough for silence to be burdened,

With beating of their hearts,

Love would pick on its own device,

And say forlorn hope hollows like hollow men of the past,

Who came to reclaim her as lover and now the racer has gone among them,

As a pitiful surrender to love and romance,

She blew a kiss to rob him of his belongings,

And stunned he looked at heaven’s door as it was for him,

Indeed he was right,

Love had captured her heart as a being of firm eternity.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s