The Black (part three)

The Black (pt. 3)

In the farthest field there is a deep pit

A wound, proclaimed in the dusty outreaches

Of sweeping grass element

Which now and again bubbles and


With screams and shrieks of new


Green is always rising on the sphere

As dust and death make their way to the ground

My fluid insides compete with this environment




I have a tree;

I am a tree

We are on a hill now

Bowing and rising

And bowing and rising

And billowing

They let the trees bump and sway

Stuck, yet expressive

To the extent of their radius there

They let the fruit deny their mothers

And thus disintegrate

Back into the soil.

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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