It's a frequency in the body
A constant murmured cry
A stronger feeling of pride and love
That survives the rain
For you are a blessing, with, and without me
As your toes reached for mine
Only for you to tell me you had to learn
How to walk alone
Nothing changed but the incoming silence
That I break occasionally when I read
Three letters on my wrist
The poetry of you, a mantra
Seeds for the fields of a better tomorrow
About the Creator
Vili
Bitter patter
Field of the Fallen
Sunlight danced softly across the frost-crusted fields, making the little blades of grass sparkle like emeralds. The faraway chirrup of a songbird was the only disruption to the quiet of the morning. An icy chill, the last vestige of the dying winter, clung to the air, settling in a thick white mist at the far side of the open field. The heavy stench of decay hung in that mist, punctuation by the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.
By A. J. Schoenfeld7 days ago in Fiction
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