This is so poetic. It needs no accessory, no external musicality, to reveal its beauty. In free verse, one can easily see the fine line between poetry and prose, as well as between poetry and musical prose. The distinction lies in the way imagination and reality intersect with pure emotion and internal rhythm, forming a beautiful array of expression~where imagery, colours, and verbal painting take the place of logic and premise.
So I will not go into the context of your poem or attempt an analysis, though I am tempted to do so—for your words need no dissection; they speak for themselves.
"In the cracked pavements
of this haunting city,
dandelions still grow"
One cannot be more poetical than this: the nostalgic beauty, the love that cannot be walked upon and trampled, the paradox of unreachable rebirth. Manila~the love that does not exaggerate, for it is real.
I also have thoughts about your other poem, “Muscle Memory,” but perhaps I will share those later.

The best of the best

DD

This is so poetic. It needs no accessory, no external musicality, to reveal its beauty. In free verse, one can easily see the fine line between poetry and prose, as well as between poetry and musical prose. The distinction lies in the way imagination and reality intersect with pure emotion and internal rhythm, forming a beautiful array of expression~where imagery, colours, and verbal painting take the place of logic and premise.
So I will not go into the context of your poem or attempt an analysis, though I am tempted to do so—for your words need no dissection; they speak for themselves.
"In the cracked pavements
of this haunting city,
dandelions still grow"
One cannot be more poetical than this: the nostalgic beauty, the love that cannot be walked upon and trampled, the paradox of unreachable rebirth. Manila~the love that does not exaggerate, for it is real.
I also have thoughts about your other poem, “Muscle Memory,” but perhaps I will share those later.

The best of the best

DD