#SymbolicSaga

In the garden of our tangled roots,
the soil whispers secrets untold.
Branches reach, but never touch,
a chasm widens, a divide unfolds.
His gaze, a storm on distant shores,
each wave crashing against my shore.
Words unsaid, like leaves in fall,
scatter, drift, and fade to lore.
The sun retreats behind clouds of gray,
casting shadows, deep and cold.
Silent echoes fill the space,
where warmth once blossomed, now grown old.
We dance around the thorns of pride,
each step a careful, wary tread.
The wounds we bear, invisible scars,
etched upon the paths we've bled.
Yet still, amidst the barren ground,
a seed of hope dares to sprout.
A fragile bloom, in spite of storms,
yearns to bridge the gap of doubt.
So we linger in this garden, fraught,
with the weight of words left unsaid.
Hoping for a moment, a glimmer of light,
to mend the bonds we've left to thread.


© Inaya

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