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A time will come,
When our lives will be empty.
Poems will speak,
Because people cannot.
A chill breeze,
Will wash over frozen trees.
Our hearts,
Will rely on artists’ words.
From literature to canvas,
The blank wake of color,
On smooth inked papers.
Pictures of paintings,
Vines that cover our pride.
The beat of thoughts,
Will grow forests in our minds.
Tunnels with no light,
Skies with no stars,
Candles with no flame,
A standing revolution.
Authors are not doctors,
But they will be our only hope.
White roses among dead weeds,
A last resort,
In a world with none.
The survival of all,
Based on the setting sun.
This open post was written 1 year, 3 months ago | V/U/S: 153, 1, 2 | Edit Post | Leave a reply | Report Post
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