The silhouette of broken branches
brushes the slowly dying sky
as every last ember – of the morning
light, falls to the distant horizon
bathing the land, in a gloomy
shadow – forever lingering.
The light touch of cashmere clouds
heal the coarse sky, and bathe it's wounds
for a shallow tomorrow;
wounds shall be reopened
and yet again shall these bloodied
embers bleed through...
The sun will crack open -
and release it's might grip -
showering the ignorant earth below,
with molten lava...
But yet – the burned and charred
ancient trees still stand;
their thick trunks rough with age -
and bare, from the destruction
brought on... by no other.
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