Forlorn

If I could pluck the fireflies from the mist and toss them into the purple sky, I would.
Who would contest such a poetic notion?
I wander across the bay like a mourning apparition,
the dewey grass succumbing to my bare soles.
I hear voices carried in the wind,
ballads of longing and of loneliness,
swirling overhead before dropping gracefully into my lap.
I mark the end of their winded journey as I pour their souls into my painted ewers,
having the final pleasure of hearing such wondrous sounds.
These are the most beautiful of them all, I ponder dreamily.
The last set of voices tend to be the loveliest,
for they have been relinquished from prying hands,
and become free of their heartbroken conscience.
Such is the purpose I fulfill in this strange place,
releasing these crestfallen spirits into the sky as they join the fireflies.

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