Skies threaded with red-gold fire Hailstorm of light twisting, flying
Translucent stars of crimson hue Flayed by the wind, falling, dying
Torn in descent towards the ground Floating to their final rest
Flaming droplets winging down Just to form a crimson nest
((That was the real poem, but since this was for a class I had to ad more to make the teacher happy))
Empty grey backs skeletal limbs All have fallen, none to save
Rusty mounds upon the dirt Silent the unbroken grave.
Flaking into dark decay Not again to touch the air
Dissolving into sodden earth Every branching vein layed bare
Swift Crow · Mon Mar 14, 2005 @ 06:19pm · 0 Comments |