Decayed, ashen, dirty handsclimbs their way up the scraggly hillside.Broken branches tears and slicesat its decrepit skin.But it does not care,for it does not feel.For it is the wraith,undead. Above it towers a wrathful sky,about to release its vitriol.And below it lies a beach,with dirt tan sandand dark, hard stones.And…
Tag: poetry
My Poetry
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The Beekeeper
Amid the sunrise,amid the flowers ornate,she sits on a wooden throne,laced with vines. She wears a dress of yellow moss,and a crown of black and clear iridescent stones.She softly smiles,as the sun bears witnessupon her golden face.She continues to gaze at the plants at her feet—those some people call weeds.There…
