Leaves fall and die and come back.
Beings die.
The stars, galaxies, our souls, that small mourning dove, they all die.
But yet they come back newer, stronger, wiser.
Why can't I?
I am getting wiser, right?
That's why I'm going through those tests? It's just a guess, but I think I'll be a guest soon.
A guest to a world of the free.
Or that's just what I hope.
I guess hopes aren't reality, though. They're dreams of reality
I guess that normality isn't a reality. it isn't a calamity but an ideology.
And that small mourning dove isn't a hope but a dream.
To be free.
To sing in new awaking, to be so mourned so loved.
To be a mourning dove, oh, what a reality that would be.
♧ --------------♧----------------♧
"Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly."
-Langston Hughes
YOU ARE READING
The words of a dead bard
Poesialittle poems I've written, some good some bad. Most of these are a collection of emotions and feelings of loneliness and heartbreak that overwhelmed me, some now of love. This is a book to honour those and let the poor bard in me rest.
