Heads on the grass, blades crushed
by our weight,
we stare blankly at the sky,
without sound.
A field of corn
holds thoughts on a kernel tip,
on the crest of ripples in the breeze.
We’re here,
we were here,
in the shade of clouds long turned to rain,
in smiles long withered to dust.
Voices are silenced in the ground
like repressed memory.
Skin brushes skin like a sting,
and we twitch away
into coppered hues.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Young poet
As I read I am reminded that nothing last forever. Yopu paint such a splendid picture of beauty gone past. I love to see young poets at work. Excellent write.
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