Taj

An endless cycle of push and pull,
Fleeting glances to the yester years,
Memories flapping in the winter chill,
Of what has been and what could have.

From Old notebooks unread letters fall,
With familiar rhetorics,
Which have long lost their meaning,
As the emotions aged with time.

On dusty rocks with moldy green,
His Majesty sits,
Sunken deep in thoughts within,
Of where his Taj could have been.