The Inverted Pyramids
We were pretty flowers in the summer,
by Warrith Olawale
We glowed bright in the sun's glimmer.
We were young lovers, a sonorous tale,
Love was a tree, withstood the gale.
But at the toss of fate's unfair die,
The nightingales sing no more,
In your cries, I hear them bark.
The dieing sun has yet pulled
Our shadows very far apart.
And now our hearts stand
Like inverted pyramids.
Dreading the balance,
Craving the fall.