With missing footsteps besides mine,
It is not love that I can define.
It is not the voice I fear,
It is the fear of silence I hear.
I try but I cannot hug,
For all that remains is a deep hole dug.
I stretch my hand to be held,
For that is all is left to be weld.
All I can do is only feel,
Hoping for the wound to tenderly heal.
A friend wrote this wonderful poem, and then decided to abandon it. When after coaxing also she didn’t want to take it back, I decided to adopt it and share it here.
(May 27th, 2012)
Vinay Leo R.
Poetry & writing to me are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.