There will come a flame and the smell of ashes,
and the sound of an old tree as it crashes;
And squirrels in the trees running at the sound,
And the beautiful oak as it falls to the ground;
Foxes will wear their furry blaze
howling their grief in the summer haze;
And not one would know of their end, not one
would know at last when their time is done.
Not one would expect its final breath
as it took the unsuspected turn to death.
And the wood herself would only recall
when all that she loved was lost after all.
YOU ARE READING
senseless.
Poetrysort of a journal and a way to clear my thoughts "in a healthy way." started it when i was fifteen so some stuff might not be the best, but enjoy.
