Green Moss
look out, the saint has swung a gun,
Good-bye this boy and his baby blues.
The tide's not green but red wide
& innocence has grown green moss.
Tomorrow was a whisper to sorrow,
and a humming-bird flaps to these words.
Frequently the heard of the crickets,
scraping your chest is your locket.
Copyright © Ryan Geoffrey Hayward | Year Posted 2025
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