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Nov 2016
Her voice is green
growing old
rekindling
nature’s
minty breath.

His voice is grey
dull and diminutive
diminishing
our white light.
Splitting the prisms
by dismissing good wisdom.

My voice is diaphanous
blank slates
silver screens vanishing
nature retreating
beneath the fury of the unknown.
Skin scraped deeply,
wound stinging.
Until, it is naked and raw.
Graff1980
Written by
Graff1980  39/M/Litchfield Illinois
(39/M/Litchfield Illinois)   
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