The melancholy of flowers

He drinks tea daily at Alia’s tomb, trying to get together his life from the broken state.

He doesn’t tell a soul other than the God about his mourning. There is still something about being so close to where one can smell the flowers planted in reminiscence of his beloved that eases his heart.

He doesn’t speak of the loss which he buried it under her tomb. It will eventually come back for his sense. He will try and probably fail to be ready.

The grey in his beard mocks him each time he sees himself. All these existence time has him apart! All these years! She was young and beautiful and full of love to give. And he was blind to her presence.

The life he has lived, the memories made, the days spent, sums to nothing without her any longer.  He, the sad maiden here, wishes the unattainable; himself affianced to a greying king in another land of mind.

No longer in a poetic mood, he finishes his tea and looks into the calm pool of water where he sees his own reflection and Alia’s tomb behind him.

This post is written for Blogchatter’s prompt for the week – INTERNATIONAL TEA DAY

Author: Novemberschild

I write a lot, which keeps me off the streets and out of trouble. There is always something to write about, always a new story to craft. Not writing, for me, is like trying to hold back a sneeze. Learning to write was the most powerful influence in my life. I can still remember the awe I felt when I realized I could put real words onto paper and tell out a story. From that first ‘a-ha’ moment I knew I wanted to write.

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