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?

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s