Drops are torn from the silky grasp
of clouds,
like an infant,
torn from a woeful mother.
They hit the ground, the lush jade pillow
of grass,
like blood
spattered on a battlefield.
They pool and puddle and seep into the thirsty mouth
of moss,
like a lost child
finding one safe haven to cling to.
They veer through the ground, and find a lonely patch
of roots,
like a savior
coming to give them peace.
YOU ARE READING
Swept Ashore
PoetryBe swept away in the ocean of poetry, wash ashore in a sanctuary of words, a place where you will be safe from the harsh world of sanity, catch a breath of the sea breezy air, twinged with the insanity that only writers know.
