In the last days that stony ground gave life,
those great, green gifts were gained by thrust of knife.
As the blood puddle spread, so went the green —
trumped by colors inanimate and mean.
And when they prayed for cooler days and nights,
they were answered with blazing fires and lights.
the !n(tro)verted yogi
nomadic, poetic, and sometimes ascetic
Good stuff! I love that you use rhyming in your poems. I am always reluctant to do so, but I feel that you pull it off very nicely.
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amazing work
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Thank you
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