my grandmother,

speaks of a being that could once fly,

i waved her off for she was in a mental state,

and believed she was,

a mere joker in disguise.

i was too young. 

my grandmother,

narrates tales of when water would continuously sway,

the only thing i can relate to,

the silent ricochet of hollowness;

her soul slowly dying away.

her eyes built with ripples of pity,

pity, she said, just for me,

for i was born into the reality,

where fault is thrown upon, the curse,

of my generation’s lifeless tragedy.

i was too young. 

her silent words,

crept into my pliant wounds soon to dismay,

appalled at the sight of her home’s perish,

helpless, 

afraid of the greed that was too late to stop,

for it had already been set astray.

years later...

dear grandma, 

forgive me. 

i was too young to understand your words of grief, 

but i do now and so, 

 i tried a plethora of times, 

 to save nature from further mischief. 

dear grandma, 

i know you’re gone now,

but, 

one day, 

i’ll help make the clouds up in heaven, 

easier to breathe.