a multitude of leaves yellowed and dried
with a finger on lip
a few bit their tongue tip
doomed to be crushed, silently they lie
or am I deaf? No, none of them cried;
seasonally promised of rebirth-
so are we? we are parched and dried,
plucked from our hives, tired of our fights
flown off to faraway lands- barren and bare
no roots to provide refuge and no touch of care
will we ever bloom again?
do we deserve another shower of rain?
make me believe we do
I will bloom, I long for you.
To believe is not about what you think is right. To believe is to hang on to something you wish to exist.
To believe is to hope.
© Written Frames, 2018