No signs of rain, yet still he waits,
Eyes upturned, wishing a pouring heaven.
Yet nothing his way does flow besides,
The wind from a desert once glen.
In his eyes he has seen the Ocean,
But feet never left his fallow land.
Dying is the unborn, as pregnant Earth,
Is parched as thirsty sand.
If tears could quench his thirsty Land,
The Rivers would, an Ocean be made.
But look what angry sun has wrought,
For tears have dried unmade.
He stands over the roots of,
A Tree ancient and knotted.
As he looks away and over the forest vale,
Where the dusky woods have rotted.
Entranced he moves, towards salvation,
When a buzzing awakens afar.
He turns to see the ague of grain,
For their due, have come from far.
With sad eyes over the Locusts wild,
And lips cracked into a last grin.
Over flung he, the catcher of Rye,
Into the blighted fen within.
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Different than your others, but the same at the same time. It took a first person, which I don't think I've seen from you or maybe just can't remember. Lol.
ReplyDeleteI liked the imagery, the ending more than the beginning, the beginning was dreamy nice, but the end felt more real.
I loved the image it left me..But it sort of brought me there through a twisted path. I agree with Rachel. Since you wanted critique ermm simplify the beginning cut the rhyme out. I feel perfection there..though i dont know much :] so...
ReplyDeleteWhen you talked to me..You built it up much lesser than what it actually is..its nice.