My Grandparents' Verandah

I see The white painted pieces of the verandah Scratched away by a harsh relentless wind. It leaves behind bilged browns; Rusted remnants Of chairs, Of walls. The cement rips, Falling below To blend with rocks and stones In the barren and sterile garden. Though the tiles plastered with grimy mud Is enough for algae to grow. They have decayed, Like the flesh of the once young man Who gazed to the oceans in bliss. They have decayed, Like the skin of the once young woman Whose lips quenched his eyes. It has decayed, Like remnants Of a memory; Trickling laughter and Chatter churning from A blend of emotions, Have cascaded away, Gone with this putrid wind; A jagged silence Now plaguing the walls. As remnants Of a past generation.