This is my nephew KC, who will never have a broken dream. photo by Glorypearl Dy |
That sound of Nokia
carries me back to
a second when
going home smelled of a 'familiar',
between dreams and reality,
a faded picture, burned by
random ablaze of recollection,
even while a boy plays
inside a department store window,
as a woman passes caring only for her deadlines,
and the bubbles,
from a toy of a vendor at TAFT,
lands on my bag of broken dreams.
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