THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

I was a drunken soul,  When I reached the cliff,  But sober enough to stop at the edge.  I stopped and thought why would I stop.  What feeling is better than  Floating freely in the air,  Feeling light and unburdened.  What feeling is better than,  flying with the birds And falling among the flawed trees. No romantic ecstasy can compete with that feeling.  Everything I left at that house,  Isn't mine to go back,  But everything that awaits beyond  this cliff is mine to embrace.  The cold chills me asking is it the right time?  When is the right time?  When is the right time to float?  I'm sober enough to remember My pain,  No drinking can diminish its essence,  No party can fade its dominance.  Happiness was a distant cousin,  Who would come like Christmas.  Yet I kept the Christmas lights for a longer time,  Hoping to keep the darkness away,  and Christmas never came as I hoped.  But this cliff, its emptiness, and stillness beckons like a witch,  A sad witch looking for a comp

  As the church bell tolls,  The pigeons flew away from the parapet.  The shiny old white threads left on the Red aisle runner Struggle to break up from its clutches.  The wind becomes the professional bench drummer of hallelujahs,  And the pages of the Bible search for a reader.  As I entered, the guilty cobwebs hide Their faces behind the Chandelier,  reflecting its complex housing.  A curse has consumed this place,  The curse of lovers who were left at the altar. The church stopped functioning,  someday,  Because the people stopped coming someday.  And the choir stopped singing,  The weddings stopped And nobody was left at the altar.  They say it is the curse,  The curse of seven lovers who were left at the altar,  Over the seven years.  The lovers who left the town in shame Never came back.  But people shared stories of cruel brides and cruel grooms,  Who left their lovers at the altar. They sewed and stitched stories,  They made tea and poured stories,  They read and shared storie