Pieces of asphalt falling from the sky, just like birds in migration.
They loom close to the ground bathed in a tender golden halo shed by a moon that just rose.
Crows crashed against the horizon, now tainted with shadows.
Pieces of asphalt falling from the sky like a storm drawing near, and on the stony path slithering through the fields, high grasses grow in-between the boughs dried by a memory of sunlight.
Pieces of sun imprisoned inside the long stalks of wheat, this is what gives to the world this shade so golden.
And grass grows, the last hope of a memory soon to be erased but which tries to persevere for just a little longer of its existence, because in the distance crows melt amongst the clouds, and soon the moon halo's gone.
But the memory of sunlight still stays anchored, in this wheat field lost into a dark night.
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purple wounds
PoetryChapter One: Glimmer of Hope (purple wounds) In her song Sweet Nothing, Taylor Swift said: "On the way home, I wrote a poem You say, 'What a mind', this happens all the time." This quote defines exactly what you'll find in this collection. Several...
