withering fingers of vines
fight for a grasp on these brick walls. i wake as
the living fall dead. if i could tell the autumn leaves that the picket-fence businessmen will crush them beneath pointed soles,
would i mourn them the same?
they would not hear. this place speaks a language but
i am not enough to understand. talking in
whistle breezes and
the cries of hundred-year old tree
falling and spilling memories -
they will put a house there, so i suppose
we aren't supposed to care. they will
board its windows with wooden slats as monsoons
devour towns whole, gaping jaws, it does not want to hurt us but
there is no conscience to her madness
and the world rages on,
the lights will fall out of themselves,
we will not look to see
the flowers saying good-bye.
raised and bred by
but the moonlight will be the only one to hold them
as they die.
cruel storms guided by crueler hands:
fallen trees will watch us
hide from something and wish that they
could have done the same.
when daylight's grace returns
their bark will be
warm like flesh and
our skin will be cold.
i took kind of a dramatic spin on this... i honestly had no idea where it was gonna go but!! it turned into something kinda more wild! i wrote this super fast as well so. it might suck. anyway i hope yall enjoy and i didn't stray too much from the idea of the prompt :))