Before the fields, lie the ents in the shape of men,
The dreams of those whom have been petrified, and choked.
Cursed to watch the same reveries fade into an eternity of sunsets,
Until the same eternity, will show mercy for their existence,
Or the lack of it.
Some of the ents, have suitcases, some have hats,
Some have masks with beaks, other have treats.
Many are torn, and most are dry,
It seems that even here, some seem to bloom, or try.
There is no soil here, just a concrete, hot.
You will find no sun here, just the moon, cold.
That is, if you are not so bold.
There is no cloud, and the sky is dry as the roots.
They would see, if the bowed heads of the ents could rise.
It smells like rain.
YOU ARE READING
Through the veil ( Poetry )
PoetryA volume of poems under work, a story told chaotic and backwards about the birth, death, life and intrigues of "a" or "the" God, and one small mortal who takes the trip to discover all in-between them.
