Crawl out, crawl out.
I know you are weary.
I know you are tired.
There are fields of clay in the sun,
red below and blue above.
Strands of dead grasses bend in the breeze
as birds wing from pine to oak.
The sap is running, blood in the veins,
breath in the wind.
Voices are calling you.
Though you be weary. Though you be tired.
The day is not yet done.
No comments:
Post a Comment