March 03, 2024

Dear ghost,

I have imagined and anticipated it. But my garden is yet to sprout the golden bloom. On days when I cannot sing, there is a drought in my mind. It's as desolate as a famished land with cracks crawling on its earth. I have to let go if this hope only drowns me. To be free, to be free, how I long to be. 

Yours even as I fear to be.