I hear my own sadness
sculpting into old trees
and buried stones,
searching liberation
from the womb of sorrow
and I see it
in attire of sere branches,
beseeching a timely closure.

I still hold hands with my crippled hope…

I see my sleeping flowing beyond
any sand glass,
bleeding out my dying dreams
and let them dry.

I slowly turn into dripping fog
and lose track of my inner ghost
as it melts away into the ground.

I let go of my hope…