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Green Leaves
November 17, 2015
Seven serene leaves that crimson the clover of crowned chrome. I’m dead and hollow and cold and blistered, wrought and withered, eroded and stoned.
Follow the birds and jump of a cliff.
Hope is faint and our dream is over, these roots are dry.
What kind of faith do I have to hold my head up high?
Counting bodies like a shepherd counts his sheep.
Paint the walls with their blood.
Give them a new name to feed off of.
A new life and a new sun.
To follow their new moon that I've given upon.
© Nasiha M., Huntsville, AL
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