THE OLD YOU (I)

The golden brownish leaves fall from above

as the cheerful breeze sweeps by

accompanied by sounds of gay and love

There sit I on the swing so wry

Glancing at the empty quiet street

With a labyrinth of twisted thoughts

in my head and while I breathe

and the swing sways, I am caught

in despair and dismay

‘cause I miss the old you that would say,

‘ I love you till I die’

I miss the old you that never makes me cry,

the old you that will never lie

and the old you that will never say goodbye.