I always believe that a poem shouldn't have a picture to establish its scenery. As a poet, we are the weaver of our own landscape, using the threads of emotion to weave clothes to cover ourselves from the coldness of loneliness.
--
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of footsteps never grows old,
Akin to a city made of gold,
Time would erase the traces of memories,
But every smile of us always exists in our reverie,
The smile, the joy, the naivety,
It always exist with never-ending certainty,
The heaves, the sweat, and boiling blood,
Shows the connection we will always have,
Many friends have come by,
However, there are also other's that are forever gone,
Time would pass and every thing will become a lullaby,
A trace of whistling wind for the days bygone,
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of the rain brings nostalgia,
Of how much tears and stories we shared,
Like the piece of board of Ouija,
The names will always haunt us scarred,
Such was a horror of losing a family,
The friendship that was broken by eternity,
Regret, grief like the tears of the sky,
Brothers, sisters, within the heart you always lies,
The past, the present and the future,
We already left behind our treasure,
A legacy that will continue,
Till the rest of the avenue,
Clang. Clang. Clang.
"Gramps!"
Along with footsteps of the rushing people, and tune of the raindrops, only the sound of the creaking wooden chair exist, where an old man lies. Even the grief and cries of his family seems voiceless, as he ascend to fulfill his last wish...
To weave another memories with his old friends. And with a smile on his face, it was a goodbye.
"The Weaver" - by Haraya
