The grass makes a cradle for me.
Little ants march out, rush back into hills.
Their homes are
like mine.
I run away from the bruised world
to get to my blue Earth, a dream,
a bubble
in space.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
The Yard
The grass makes a cradle for me.
Little ants march out, rush back into hills.
Their homes are
like mine.
I run away from the bruised world
to get to my blue Earth, a dream,
a bubble
in space.
