The Tale

A piece of paper.

Born in a multitude

Bound together by unwritten ends.

Till someone wrote a word

And gave it a purpose.

A message to carry.

 

Pretty eyes read and reciprocated.

And then came the season of lovelorn scribbles:

First cautious, far apart.

Then the shapes advanced,

Slowly, steadily.

Circling round each other,

Like swans at play.

Silent, yet superfluous.

 

Till the lines met.

And the purpose was achieved.

 

For months after

It lay aimless

Stored in a drawer

Basking in glory

For a few furtive moments now and then

When eyes that cared

Glanced at it.

 

Till such a day came to pass,

When those same hands

That had given it life

Tore it away from its aimless kins

Packed it with a tear

And cast it out of the window.

 

On the street it lies now

Torn, decrepit and damp.

Uncared for.