By Jayke   

The talking trees are midst at our grounds work,
As we work up trust we lose our lust.

Words spoken fall flat like dust,
these words we created to help,
Make us progress..

We fall short of change;
in hopes that,
what we can effect one life we have affected..

There is no control that hangs here,
no solace that we can grasp,
Nor sleep that we might cling to.

Dust upon the eaves of wavering pathways, forgotten and abhorred.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem

This Poems Story

The life of the world around us.