Journalism in verse
Life is gone.
Orchards pregnant with swollen fruit,
Sticky and plump.
Dissipated like your sunbeaten summer,
Kissed by the pale lips of winter.
The plants are gone.
Colossal mountains peppered with moonlight,
Dewy and bright.
Wildflowers pungent with summer’s long passed,
Wilt and cower after that last April shower.
Nature is gone.
Heavy lidded eyes glazed over with dreams.
The world you used to see is no longer,
You are gone.
You see not,
The plump fruits rich with springs bounty,
You see not the alcoves of great mountains,
Dusted with heavens tears.
You see not your April showers,
And your trees alike to towers.
You see not.
Because I am gone.
Wind beaten wings,
Flattened against the worlds “good graces”,
Can no longer carry me places.
This world you now see was not always meant,
About my poem: