He reads her yet ...

He's gone .. long ago ...
Yet, he reads me ...
Reads me voraciously like ...
A bookworm inhabits the world of literature ...
Yet , he hides his face ...
For he knows...
He has erred and ...
There is no coming back ...
Into the folds of warmth and leisure ..
For, a cold winter has swept over....
What was once a Green paradise ...
A Shangrila destroyed ...
By his silliness....
A dream swept away by his mistakes.

He reads her, yet ....
There is a pause  in what he sees...
There is pain ...
Yet, he is helpless...
For she shall die but ...
Let him enter the bastions of her shielded Castle.

Behind those walls ...
Engulfing her persona ...
She feels safe ...
From the prying eyes of the predatory Wolves ...
She is in a World ...
Created by her fantasies ...
A beautiful World...
Untouched by another ...
A cocoon she has woven around her ...
She writes ...
For him ...
But, never waiting for his return.

He reads her ...
He writhes in pain ...
Turning in his grave ...
He screams her name out ...
She hears it ...
But, doesn't move an inch ..
She flicks her hair from her face ..
And, moves on ...
Penning her way into her fantasies.