By Shawn Marc B. Carreon
I stared at a tree, robust and tall,
With leaves so gentle, too gentle to touch,
I held it with Midas’ touch,
Precious as it is, colonizing my palm,
Addicted to my touch, a sight with wonder.
The sky, grayer than black and white,
It lacked the colors of another,
A silent echo sounded within the clouds,
With winds so cold it froze time, sealing the moment.
My sight is lost under the burdens of its shade,
I missed the sun’s embrace,
When the nights were jealous,
The days were old, but the nights were young.**
