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.