In fields where my spirit takes flight
with butterflies, there I’d be.
There, where my verses grow
in silence like the seeds
amid a crowd of grasses.
At times you’d find me
haunting the river bend
where my innocence slipped by,
and where I’d pray for absolution
of sins not worth regretting.
Yet, I am but a driftwood
sculpted by the currents and time.
Or a ripple, unnoticed,
in the waters that drown
the tears of an unspoken void.
Still, the moon, that distant softness,
soothes the pain of waiting, wanting
that gnaws like the last line
of a fading song
in the cradle of the ancient winds.
Redmoon
23 September 2024
(Redmoon of Bukidnon likes to describe himself as a trying hard poet).