34 The following is a segment from one of my stories/poems I've been working on recently that's a work in progress. It was edited through a brand new editing system I recently started experimenting with for all my stories but mostly my poems where I make changes based on mistakes, rhythm issues, and lack of content clarity based on what I hear in my readings of each draft and make multiple recordings until my work seems polished enough. It's called "the pond story":
After rainfall comes draining
of a certain, familiar pond
All that remains
are drops of water:
drops of puddles
below your feet.
And the birds
dip their feet:
for there's nothing to fear.
When will the water be returning
when will it be back again?
Till then
we go dipping
no way of swimming:
impossibility.
Days pass
Left wondering
waiting for bittersweet familiarity.
One day we'll move
to a place not so far away
but we'll miss the days
of puddling
in certain safety nets.
Empty ponds
leave spots of water
in which it used to contain,
not so lifeless
with the occasional
presence of birds.
But whatever happened
to a sense of certainty
of an ongoing presence
of constant life?
A place so empty
of a gathering life.
You take away feature
you take away (vibrant) life.
Once again wondering:
when will the water return
beyond the bits n' pieces
still left behind?
You take away feature
you take away (vibrant) life.
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