To A Long Suffering Self....
suffering is an unseen
ghost
it haunts me in my
forest
the worms sometimes sing
and it is
more often than not
disturbing
specks of light sometimes
come in
like a drizzle of rain
it does not wet me
but makes me smooth and
glowing
a halo of bubbles
often comes out from the locks
of my hair
but i do not really mind
that indeed in every aspect
of everyday suffering
these bits and bits of miracles
do constantly happen
like some sort of givens
we sit upon trees like monkeys
deprived of our tails
eating the ripe bananas in the middle
of our lamentations
provided from nowhere
and we often ask ourselves
how come we have survived for years?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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