the streak of sunlight 
behind those clouds,
ah, the crunch of dried leaves,
the dancing shadows 
of slender trees,
the silhouette 
of birds flying past
the rainbow,
all the hidden voices,
the diminished sounds,
the penetralia 
of written words
and painted art,
oh, the poignant smell of old, 
preserved petals—
far from fresh
but meaningful, 
in a sense
an indulgence,
an acquired taste,
of the first laugh,
the first touch
and all this insanity,
a dream I cannot wake up from
where I am lost, compelled
to do something new
before everything becomes
you, you, you

Evelyn Dumag-Gabinete

This is the #potd poem of the day.

I would love to write a poem for you. See how.


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