I crush my poem in my hands

like a dried leaf.

-Edgardo Maranan, “One Fall Day”

Tired of being the weepy, anguished

poet, I stand on the white terrace

to listen to the steady spurts

of the tricycles’ vigil.

I ponder at everything.

Grey clouds floating high

in the nonchalant sky,

wiping away traces of curiousity;

the mango trees not bearing

this summer,

weaving only promises, flowering

lightly within the dark leaves;

or the smell of thick smoke

watered by the dew

lingering over the orange roof.

And so my tears pile

on the things I see—

disappearing skies,

glistening trees

and drab tricycles.

I stay here and let my senses

forget everything as I become another entity,

soon to be forgotten too.

READ
Spiritual makeover

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