Now It Is Too Late
Not many tensions,
Nor any excitement
Life has ever been
A placidly flowing river!
Single and free!
Never been any disputes
Never had to consult,
Nor seek consent
Single and free!
But doesn’t his house
With that cold, mildewed air
Reflect his heart?
A house so full of things:
A hoard of well stacked books,
Exquisitely carved Victorian furniture,
Antique collection of curios,
Yet so full of nothing!
The prim order of the house
Never disturbed by naughty hands
Nor shuffled by dusty feet
Dirtying the Persian carpets
Or smudging the glistening floor
The well laid bed covers
Never get creased
By the body’s desire
And Love’s tight embrace
And never, they bear
The fragrance of a female scent!
Sometimes he would shake
From foot to crown
At a question hurled by
An unknown voice;
“Did you squander away your life? ”
Then he recognizes….
He has been a lone traveler
Ever walking through
A one way lane
That will wind off
With a few more steps!
If, by chance somewhere
A new track
He would no more be
A solitary tramp!
There would be a companion
To hold hands!
Now it is too late!
Valsa George's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Now It Is Too Late by Valsa George )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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