Forlorn Hope

On the forlorn road,

When I mope,

Memories of past become fellow traveller.

Forlorn attempts of mine

Fail to bring happiness to my gloomy face.

With a worry,

Memories stroke gently on my shoulder,

Soliciting to bury the hatchet with my soul.

Though the soul is not belligerent,

Though it is not cantankerous,

Still it deifies her in the temple of its niche,

Not ready to assassinate the forlorn hope.

How will I elucidate, that she will never come?

How will I say she is the priority of someone else?

Someone else is the owner of her cardinal vermilion and sacred thread.

She will never come, she will never come

And

My soul has to remain forlorn with its forlorn hope.