Poetry | Stories | Photography
To remember the trees;
green, tall kind ones.
A land of promise and beauty;
we lived in warmth & peace.
To remember the day
they called us heathens.
Our land, now flowing with blood,
as bodies suffocated the trees.
To remember the trees change;
dying as bodies putrefied, rotted.
Our land without living trees,
until the blossoming darkness.
A sorrowful day
for the
straggly failures.
Once fertile land
the farmer
orders a clearing.
Slice by the Scythe
they fall towards
the over-farmed land.
Lost in the echoes
of barren land without snow,
wishing to see you.
The sea calls to the wind,
the wind calls to the sun,
the sun calls to the moon,
the moon calls to Winter,
and
the land begins to darken.
The last rose of Autumn
begins to take flight.
Petals ride on the wind,
for there is no sun;
only the moon and Winter.
C & K 