Last day,
I went to the meadows
and walked the vastness
of the hazel tapestry of burnt grasses.
Under the melting temperature of the sun,
I had my errand of vague itinerary
and swam the ocean of warmth
that had forsaken me for a while.
I was like a child
who longed of those good old days
and rolled over the earth
beneath the calming cirrus clouds
and the deep blue hue of the pleasing sky.
I strayed upon the limits of my feet, transgressed the barbed wires
that divides the place from a nearby stream.
From a distance,
I captured myself drooling.
With verocious excitement,
I ran swiftly towards the pristine water
as to how nesting birds
quench their eagerness to fly.
In bended knees,
I grasped the water
and washed my face thoroughly,
seized my soul with overwhelming glory.
As I looked down,
I mirrored the pale sheets of agonized romances
that bade farewell last winter solstice.
It led me to reminisce all the voids
that a ghost never tried to fill in.
Yet, it sought its mortality.
The coffin must be burried
as well as the bitter sweet lies
I was once deceived.
I already won the olympics of mourning.
"Enough", I said and stood back again.
I brazened up and saw the sun,
and drank its comforting heat.
It was something I missed
from the previous ephemeral winter trip I had.
Gratefully, I sighed with jovial heart.
Preface embraces me again.
For as long as the sun sets at dawn,
this new story will heed no epilogue.
YOU ARE READING
The Flyleaf
Poetry"Poetry is the aesthetic translation of the world's dynamism." Here is a collection of poems in random subjects. Enjoy! 💕
