Long ago and far away,
atop a mountain,
Promises were made.
Ideal, naive selves present.
Words without witness
fall too easily
to the ground.
Do they splash or pop?
Or land with great thud?
No.
The words slowly drip, like
the morning dew sinks
into the forever forest floor.
One day woken, the forest overgrown.
Not with the words that planted it,
but the lost intentions
of past pain sounds.
Hold my hand,
but let me be.
None of this is fair.
Hold my hand,
and walk away.
Love yourself deeply.
Breath in the crisp fresh air.
Photo by Irina Iriser on Unsplash
first published in Tiny Seed Literary Journal, May 2019
Hokis | Poetry 