The wind moves like a whip,
As if making way for a storm.
The field, a dull golden amber,
Leans to one side in the fiery weather.
The wind pulls me away from myself,
Freezing my saddened body,
But releasing my tortured soul,
Pulling to the healing grounds
That I consider this field to be.
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC
The wind moves like a whip,
As if making way for a storm.
The field, a dull golden amber,
Leans to one side in the fiery weather.
The wind pulls me away from myself,
Freezing my saddened body,
But releasing my tortured soul,
Pulling to the healing grounds
That I consider this field to be.
The field is really nice.
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