Drips of Dew

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?


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

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