Breeze. a poem

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In the distance, a dancer waits.
A warm breeze flows past, filling the air with the colors of melodies once heard.
She takes form, and the distance is present.

Each to their own, but one.
each listening to the rhythm of their reflected sight,
holding each other’s words as if arms extended in a dancer’s embrace.

And what of this breeze which fills the air,
and caresses the dancer’s face,
its refreshing mist, its soft touch.

Its delight is to travel, soulfully
getting lost, a destination of choice,
for a breeze so fair.

And a dancer’s melody.

Salvador Francisco Alaniz

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Words. a poem

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I walk alone among the crowds of myself. Distant. Yet searching for the words.

They come to mind,
and are spoken as if arrows released randomly. Never missing a point never intended.

A passerby, unlike myself. among the crowds of myself.
Not so distant, as to hear words unknown.

Not so distant, words to be clothed, some in familiar attire, some not.
And they mingle into the crowds of myself.

A stranger am I.
A traveler in a crowd of myself and one. And two, and three and more.
Wanting to be stranger no more. Searching for the words.

I walk alone.

Salvador Francisco Alaniz