May you grow to see the pattern,
Of this rather exquisite life that we had.
And further,
The conundrum,
The suffering,
The lost,
The loosing.
Through them,
Doubt,
Self-inspired shackles.
Tread with iron sole boots,
and a sailor's heart.
Hot sands down south,
Spiked cliffs up north.
May your footsteps never stop.
May your channel runs through both
rocks and ice, between stars and soil.
May you understand one day,
What was gained and forfeited,
Through these lives.
More to come.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoesiaI wanted to resonate some undefined emotions that ain't as tacky as a word. A small collection of poems I wrote when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
