A dying was to be had.
To grieve for all lost.
Never to return.
Though stand firm in your dying sun.
Unflinching even in chill.
The tribe of mud is waiting.
Fear them not.
For they're not the dreaming.
They are your waking.
Catching all the petals with slippery hands.
Soft croons and wistful whispers.
This is both the end and beginning of a something.
Covered in muck and grime.
Cold and in the company of the tribe.
Bathed in their slippery red mud.
Not a touch without intention.
They'll give you all they have.
And all they have to give.
With a hiccup to choke back life.
Climbing out of the mud.
You are enough.
Not born from any ashes.
Not a flaming bird destined for rebirth.
A flurry of petals.
A child of the stars.
Sailing on the languid winds.
Many moons to bloom again and again.
Season upon season.
Always bound to the garden of home.
The garden of Sunrise or Sunset.
YOU ARE READING
Sunrise or Sunset; The Garden of Hugs
PoetryHey all! This is just a collection of primarily free-verse poems I've created. Every poem is a different flower with a theme. To give the feeling of warmth and healing. With a sprinkling of finding resilience from within. That is the overall goal. E...
