8.1.14
I felt my ancestors whisper through the trees,
their cold, dead fingers running over me
grasping firmly at my memory,
blowing the tears from my cheeks.
The forrest watches over their grave
as God could clearly not have seen through the canopy
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
8.1.14
I felt my ancestors whisper through the trees,
their cold, dead fingers running over me
grasping firmly at my memory,
blowing the tears from my cheeks.
The forrest watches over their grave
as God could clearly not have seen through the canopy
Request permission to use this poem