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When summer comes around
He is under the sun
Listening to summer's sound.
The silence beneath his feet is taunting
And the world he comes from
Is intensely daunting.
My ears will ring as he stretches out his hand
And he cries for help.
But when we touch we crumble like sand.
"The grass I water is dead," he said.
"The grass isn't always greener," I responded.
And with that he withdrew and fled.
From that day he stopped watering the grass
Under his weak feet
Because the green he saw was a green that would never last.
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Hope in the Mourning
PoetryCOMPLETE ✔️ Highest ranking: #175 in Poetry! (3/15/17) - Where there is mourning, there is also hope. Despite the struggles and the losses we mourn-mental, physical, or emotional-good can come out of it. But even when there seems to be not hope as a...
