Silent shadow in Autumn fur
Small dog, you stir
When they burn down your home
In the deep night
And you and your trees are all alight
Now wonder that you steal
They forget your suffering
How it's real
Oh come now
To the den
Do not think of
Those corrupt men.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
