Benches in the park speak to me the stories of the night,
The rumbling of the leaves pull the chords smelling of the flights,
Prized and possessed among the soothing sunlight of the yesteryears,
Laughing endlessly remembering the flickering yet futile sought off fears,
Running to catch the left overs of the hidden meanings,
Paying to play the poster on the wall to feel the shenanigans,
Losing all closely knit fears between the dots covering all the spots,
Staring blindly into the approaching voice, blinded by the fastening thoughts,
Entering the passage with the strength to catch the last air,
Rigged and weak the act itself was the demise of his lost flair,
Thud, and the scratches, left in the light, obsessed in the dark,
Rolling in the way, separated from the rest, resting under the stony bark,
Turn and burn, there is nothing left to pay for the fun,
All that was to be, that is, to craft in the was, is to run,
Patiently growing. waiting for the end to come, to the obvious truth,
It had to leave the bosom, one day finally, to be called, fruit!