With a twisted and scornful smile,
the broken old bench near the gate greets us for a while.
Its tattered limbs and discoloured face attracts everyone towards its surface.
Speaks loudly the volume of by-gone stories in a beat,
...
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this poem is so lovely. Without looking at any image, you made me picture this wooden bench and all it stands for: memories of time past, well done. Keep writing.
Twisted with the muse of life! And, the struggles of the day. Nice work.
Thankyou so much! :)