The fields of love look greener,
When observed from far away.
All our hands seem cleaner,
The further back you stay.
But I have seen the dying grass,
Been encompassed by the weeds.
This field of love is rotting,
Turning black beneath our feet.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the Pained
PoesíaA collection of words both happy and sad strewn together to create awful poetry.
