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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 |
