Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2014
wind flushed over a countryside
rippling, rippling, ripping away the river
leaving nothing but a deep crevice in the sand. (This is the wasteland.) the grass, once green, is brown and shriveled. It is back to dirt again.
there is no more here, nothing to graze on:
these lips are dry
and have nothing to give you.
Lorelei Adams
Written by
Lorelei Adams
776
   ---
Please log in to view and add comments on poems