The cupid’s arrows struck me, once,
The cupid’s arrows struck you too, once,
Similar verb on different subjects though the theme was preserved,
Parallel action, ignorantly I assumed,
Of arrows, I became a fool of,
For I was struck with the red ones,
And you the blue ones,
Arrows, yes, of colours, varied,
Perhaps, of that, you eluded eloquently from the medium of love,
Subtle matter, subtle theme, subtle story, in which we survived not!
Weaving a story of you and me was never easy,
For it spoke of cumbersomeness in every bit but I took a stack at it,
Leaving me an elucidation of where my existence erased with such clarity,
Leaving me a prisoner of the present in a transient state,
Acknowledging me of a tale ended abruptly, only to the loss of the readers,
Entrusting me with false hopes, threaded with woe,
Held in irreversible time dimension of where my mind failed to digest it all,
The cupid’s arrows struck me, once,
The cupid’s arrows struck you too, once,
Alas, of different colours, an earlier hypothesis of mine turned down,
Yet, I can make more, rather than being dormant and playing safe!
