Hybrid Petals

Like the flowers waiting,

even on the very worst mornings,

memories come knocking,

the earth seems to spin a little more

with a little more melancholy,

and even the birds express pain

through the silence.

There will be days

when you won’t be scared anymore,

there will be nights

when you won’t be surrendering to your fears,

and even if no one responds,

you will have a poet,

and the poems will come crawling

from the dry veins and bruised knuckles.

There will be your dear March

that will kill me more than February could ever do,

and I will be there,

I will breathe with you.

Like all writers,

I will kneel to the moon,

and sometimes,

even to the stars…

The ink flow will

outrun the tears,

and I will still exceed poems for you…

When will this end?

That’s the tragedy.

It may never end.

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