On the 25th...

i am repeating
what usual things i have done
and will always be doing

there is always a room for
my silence
how i keep it always as a seed
growing
and just that
forever.... a seed

its fruits are nowhere to be
found
it has never even bloomed

a seed in my mind
like cancer

restrained, controlled,
well kept

now this silence
takes its toll at the count of
ten thousand and five hundred
solitudes.

i take my cup
drink the wine and i am praying
that let it not be taken

Thy will be done.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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