Listen To the Moon
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The plain is fuzzing with the ingress racing.
Predicted rain is heard in the birds singing.
Sow your seed when the moon tells its time.
Hear the tales close to the fire; it's sublime.
Contemplate the skies for the hawks cry.
Focus on the breeze and the moonlit sky.
The noble spirit exudes an altered tone.
To heed of the rite of the elder, not atone.
The misery of grievousness is heinous.
I am fated, that I could carry forward.
There's no growth from the coldness.
The stable grace cannot stem rearward.
For a dismal exhale to seek for reeling.
Hear the beat and banter with moving.
5TH PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: April 10, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Copyright © Sotto Poet | Year Posted 2022
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