She swirls around the same old swing,
Like leaves that float and fly for a new breeze,
The same park where benches lay adorned,
The same garden of memories, of love and lovelorn...
A gentle drizzle that comes every eve,
Does make her not smile nor blink.
She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors,
A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm.
Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings,
A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.