The Lone Dead Tree
The lone dead tree juts up like a blackened tooth. Silent as broken clock, limbs pointed toward midnight. Over a field of green. Under a still sky of blue.
The lone dead tree juts up like a blackened tooth. Silent as broken clock, limbs pointed toward midnight. Over a field of green. Under a still sky of blue.
Even the dead are surrounded by love. They just don’t know it. Always good to read the Master of Compression.
As the author points to hope.
Glad you’re still writing :).