Increased friction...

Dried roses,
a dry and dull maroon,
between the silent morning and the night alive lies the golden noon,
between all this silently it watches,
the silence of the moon.

The scent was long gone,
the light only cracked at dawn,
my eyes were burning looking at the light,
I felt empty,
I had nothing to fight.

Dried ink,
the redness was gone,
the beauty was gone,
they are rotting now,
they are an ugly pink.

Life was all about memories,
if only things were dealt with differently,
I would meet it,
a sweet thing called glory,

Dried roses,
monotonous music notes,
fresh, that's just an illusion,
there's nothing new with which we can build that fort.

The same writing,
the same reasons for all the commotion and fighting.
The same words,
the same birds,
the same essence,
the same twilight,
but, it's magical,
it's an obstacle,
increased friction between is and fresh,
it leaves us with memories,
and for the present it creates a mess,
increased memories,
increased friction.



PICTURE FROM THE NET- ( http://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=http://www.impactlab.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/memories.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.impactlab.com/2008/08/24/false-memories-may-affect-behavior/&usg=__nGjgs-78sezdZZO6O5yjdYIGcWk=&h=720&w=480&sz=56&hl=en&start=6&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=o693uxCIlVFQzM:&tbnh=140&tbnw=93&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dmemories%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-GB:official%26tbs%3Disch:1 )