The Yearning of the Park Bench

I sit, weathered wood, and paint-peeled green, 

A silent witness, to the urban scene. 

The sun, the rain, the snow, the gentle breeze, 

Have shaped my form, among the rustling trees. 

I am the Park Bench, still, and ever true, 

A yearning heart, for all that I once knew. 

The echoing laughter, children at their play, 

The whispered secrets, at the close of day.

I feel the ghosts of bodies, warm and deep, 

The weight of stories, that my planks still keep. 

The lovers' initials, carved with clumsy hand, 

A testament of passion, across the land. 

The quiet solace, for the aging soul, 

Who watched the world, to make their spirit whole. 

The hurried lunch, the novel's turning page, 

Each fleeting moment, on this humble stage. 

I yearn for presence, for the human touch, 

The silent solace, that I gave so much. 

The rhythm of their footsteps, drawing near, 

Dispelling shadows, banishing all fear.

The seasons turn, the leaves now fall and gleam, 

My quiet longing, a forgotten dream. 

New faces come, new stories start to bloom, 

But echoes linger, in this vacant room 

Of sunlit air, and dappled, leaf-strewn ground, 

Where countless moments, softly still resound. 

Perhaps my purpose, is to simply wait, 

For human connection, sealed by time and fate. 

To dream of weight, of warmth, of shared embrace, 

A canvas waiting, in this tranquil place. 

A silent watcher, patient and serene, 

Recalling echoes of what has been.

- Khushi Kaul