I sit in the clouds, hail swarms around me, yet I still must water the trees below.
I fail to quench the thirst of my forest, and thus the hail bestows upon them.
To frightened by the sleets cold, I allow the ice to create death in the leaves.
The animals of moral have long since passed, and the insects of personality, have also shared that fate.
All that's left is hollow trees, that I failed to protect.
People say it's not my fault, but I know better.
I've allowed death to enter the leaves, even though nothing physical had been harmed.
YOU ARE READING
Secrets that lie in ink
شِعرthis one is a little bit different, it's meant for specific people who can find out the hidden meanings inside the poems, I also just wanted to use this as a kind of venting system without actually venting. it's much easier and safer in my opinion...
