Day 8: Line from another poem

Stopping by woods...

The woods were lovely, dark and deep
like series of dreams in a deep sleep


Memories have grown on these woods
His only friends since childhood

Birds played peek-a-boo, when he'd cry
his mother working somewhere nearby

There're marks still, where he roped his swings
flying high in sky on feathers of strings

He often hid behind that reticent oak
for a secret kiss or a rebellious smoke

Those trees whispered only to him
Whenever he listened happily or grim

But after ages now, he's here alone
doesn't believe in whispers, he's a man grown

Doesn't swing on trees, 'coz he's a man grown
Metal clinks sound sweeter, than a beetle's drone

Doesn't remember his friends, he once so admired
Leaves still rustle for him, but its paper he desired

The woods were lovely, dark and deep
but he's got his own, promises to keep

He was sure, the trees will understand
they'll pretend not noticing, the axe in his hand.

© Ankush Agarwal10-Apr-2020