Dry pasture.
The pastures of dry wheatSwaying desolate and thin.
The harsh beryl sky endless,
The sun a thrashing villain.
Swaying desolate and thin;
A lonesome bird glides low.
The sun a thrashing villain
With nothing good to bestow.
A lonesome bird glides low
Giving a sound so haunting.
With nothing good to bestow
And nothing to be found.
Giving a sound so haunting;
Screams from a nightmare.
And nothing to be found
For the pastures are bare.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 954 times

Written on 2013-02-14 at 00:33




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