SONGS OF SORROW-MOURN

He came holding a trumpet, dressed in white, with a glowing face that illuminated my shadow of doubts. His smile was a catalyst of butterflies in my stomach, an awe feeling that left me in the cocoon of his charm. He was soft-spoken, words with a resounding consonance, each word an arsenal that took my guard down. His lips, made of French kisses, driving a frenzy of spine-chilling sensations, my longing grew by the tick. His hands, soft with a gentle touch, planted goosebumps of affection, unleashing emotions that drove me wild. His well-endowed body oozed masculinity, a combination of "Zeus" and "Hercules," an eighth wonder in my world. His existence was a prophecy of the one who would blow the trumpet, signaling the end of my traumatic love experiences. In its yonder days, it wasn't just a story of love; it was "love" in its living form. Love was in the air, and I loved the "aroma." The chemistry was "covalent bond" strong; the feelings were mutual, and the commitment was lifelong. How fast does a chameleon change its colours? Well, he was faster. Call it being gullible, naïve, or crazy, or maybe call it love. I smiled through the red flags; is red not a colour of love? Perhaps my optimism led me to the slaughter. I helped laying the bricks of deceit, while he built mansions in the sky. How did the savior, "a man of the Cross" in a believer's eye, turn to be the cross I could not bear? In the blink of an eye, the "Songs of Solomon" came to be the "Songs of Sorrow-Mourn."