A mosaic of flowers and trees,
no longer kissed by birds and bees,
gasping in the wind, bowing to the earth,
breathing the breath of death.
A pair of lonesome footsteps on the sand,
shoulders longing for the warmth of a hand,
the fleeting colors on the darkening shore,
a reminder that life offers no encore.
A nook that housed youth’s cheers and tears,
the songs and laughter of friends for years,
claiming the world with dreams and fears,
and wishing another last time together.
Redmoon
17 March 2025
(Redmoon of Bukidnon likes to describe himself as a trying hard poet.)