The Dusty Table

The clouds are fading,
but still the darkness lingers
the glance of a traitor,
a doubt-able approach to
ceasing the fire,
the fire in the heart
as the green fields below
burn down to ashes,
hopes and dreams,
right before my blind eye crashes

waves of imaginary illusion
passes time with me,
sipping time with every drop
of tea on the table,
with a layer of thin dust,
the same that I had built up,
that she blew away at once!

The semi clear floor of
wooden table, polished with paints,
just like she was, yet internally
it was just a raw wood with
a darkness inside, oh! Polished it was!