April 18, 2016 § Leave a comment

Through the bluebells and trees

with names carved in penknives,

our childhood memories live

in the whisper of these leaves,

in the morning

in the melody of the wind,

in the waking of this world.


And at night, in the gleam of moonlight,

I try to forget how the end lived too,

past the sound of crickets

and the twinkling of starlight,

we faded into darkness

without a morning to come.


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