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Hannah Broyles Poem
The sound of the dying day.smoke billowing out of the bowl of grass and trees filling my nares.I stare at the grotesque image in front of me.The trees i have come to love now burn in a inferno that I can't stop.
The sound of the dying day.cricket’s chirping their song,I lying,staring at the night sky,the stars shimmer In their own way,I smile knowing that I’m part of a bigger picture
The sound of the dying day.the soft glow of the inferno ,they laugh at me in their demonic cackle.Their dance is of one from the necromancer’s den.The sound of autogiros is now the sound of God as he enters into the divine battle.
The sound of the dying day,the sound of owls hooting at the jokes of others, the low growling of black bears scolding her youth as they play mindlessly.The sound of hooves hitting the ground echo a warning to other deers.
The sound of the dying day, the sound of dogs running loose,the owls now silent.the bears hiding in fear,the deer now retreating.The smoke now becoming a normal fog as i get used to it . the mountains now nothing but a memory as they are consumed by the smoke.
The sound of the dying day,I close my eyes happy and excited for the day ahead.
The sound of the dying day,I close my eyes scared for the fear of losing everything.
Copyright © Hannah Broyles | Year Posted 2016
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