There Really Is No Other Time But Now

If I Still Wrote

The footsteps have faded into the crowd and throngs
The voices faint, I don’t hear them anymore

But…
If I still wrote love, on the pangs of waiting…
You’d speak again..
Sleep, wakefulness, silence - no matter – will be deafeningly alive
Of a hand held, of songs raw to this heart.

That was then. I am here – not where the weak in all of us relent…
To substitutes and void filling.
To settling and tolerating.

Here, where alone and sad, have ceased to mean the same.
Where fields of bloom are ablazed - with now.
Holding my breath no more, for gains and dreams of tomorrow.
Here, where life is as it is and should be.

If I still write love songs –
It would be about comfort – of reveling in the majestic moment of Being
Who I need to be, and who - I’m born to be.
If I still wrote…

Ruby S. Bernardo