A world to forget me,
A world to forget the sullen days,
Forget the days of euphoria,
The days of wild exultation.

Forget the anger that consumed me,
Forget the fallen tears,
Forget the tears that never fell,
The confusion,
The world I left inside my head.

For I live my life in a snowglobe,
Walking in circles,
Erasing my every step with falling snow.

Forget me,
Like footprints left in a blizzard,
I'm to be forgotten,
And gone by spring.

Forget me.

A silhouette drifts through the mist,
shaped by memory but not quite there—
a figure lost between the spaces
where time forgets its own name.


Wings flutter, soft as dust,
stirring the silence in slow breaths,
like the whispered promise
of something never meant to be.


The air is thick with the weight of nothing—
a presence that slips through your fingers
before you can hold it,
before you can understand.


In the distance, a song plays,
but its notes are hollow,
echoing through the vacant spaces
of a forgotten world.


It is as though the fairy exists,
but only in the spaces where eyes do not see,
where dreams and memories fold together
like forgotten pages,
and everything is both real
and utterly lost.


You reach for the hollow light,
but it fades before you touch it,
leaving only the scent of something once pure,
a trace of something you can never claim,
floating away
into the quiet dark.

A whisper soft—across the vale,
Where Rona Mae Ronda treads—
Her footfall light, a breeze’s tale,
Through meadows gold—she spreads.

No need of day—her presence brings,
A twilight soft and kind—
With every step—a thousand springs,
Awake in heart and mind.

The daisy turns—her face to see,
As Rona Mae Ronda glides—
Through clover fields—so carelessly,
Where innocence—abides.

The robin pauses in his flight,
To hear her laughter’s sound—
For Rona Mae—by day or night,
Turns all to sacred ground.

She leaves no trace—yet all can tell,
Wherever she has been—
The very air—begins to swell,
With what the soul—has seen.

:: 08.12.2024 ::