Grass dormant, in death like sleep
crunchy beneath her weakened feet
as she drags her tired shadow
on the path that grows ever narrow
each day the same, effete
a lurid picture, ghostly gray
the color of each remaining day
was there a time when they were …more?
bright, alive, burning with possibility
a blank canvas to be filled with
tastes, textures and living
yes living…. would that she could
yet she filled it with regret
and more regret again
sorrow about what was
anger at what was not
she filled it with hate and greed
jealousy and simple misery
the colors that spilled
were reds, only reds – like blood
the blood of hate, and anger
her trees have long since borne fruit
her fruit have thorns, she cannot bear them
thorns that are children with loud voices
children who trample on her brown grass
the reds have faded - green at first
growing more grey with each passing day
her canvas is ruined – the work of her own hand
her soul, like her shadow – tired, worn, gray
