THE FALLEN

Sherbrooke Forest | By Penny Whetton

 

 THE FALLEN

 

Tree branches bend,

scarred by age.

Beaten by the storm,

many hit the ground

amid piles of leaves.

Without a proper burial,

no one mourns their loss.

The fallen won’t be forgotten

as replacements take root

in the shade of the tall trees.

Sunshine filters through the forest,

lighting the way for the future.

BURIED IN TIME

 

 

 

Secrets buried in the sand hold

hidden memories of lives gone by.

Unearthed remains tell a story.

Dug up pottery paint a picture.

Lives in the past merge with the future.

Differences become insignificant.

Time becomes transient.

The cycle begins again.

Days flow into weeks.

Weeks into years.

Years to centuries.

Centuries fly by.

Nothing is new.

The cycle continues.

Our past becomes our future.

Until the sands of time bury our existence.

Then our future becomes our past.

And the cycle begins again.

PETALS TO THE SKY

GRIMOIRE

I stare into the dark.
Your future will be stark.
My grimoire burns bright,
flames to a great height.
Death is coming your way.
I bow my head to pray,
“This won’t be a paradise for long,
soon you will be singing a sad song.”
THE DEAD GAME by Susanne...

 

 

I stare into the dark.

Your future will be stark.

My grimoire burns bright,

flames to a great height.

Death is coming your way.

I bow my head to pray,

“This won’t be a paradise for long,

soon you will be singing a sad song.”

 

THE DEAD GAME 

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