Double...

always, shall i be
held at this hour,
always, finishing
what is composed
by the dawns of
my mind, always,
must i be a servant
of the greatness of
whispers, this and
that, an image after
another, hour after
hour, and when the
sun shines,
the fingers of light
caress my forehead,
i shall stand and
walk, under the trees,
contemplating and
so fulfilled.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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