Dark skies turned red as I walked
across fields of decayed
memories of a once warmed and
colorful canvas. That created
rivers that flowed down from faces, look how
the trees and grass
dance, as winds run between vivid
smells and harsh sights
created by a need to feed,
but too bad moving metals
and burning powder holds
spoons.
Where do you run to? When it becomes
decayed, so little, so old.
I am sorry, but all I can tell
you, is that your canvas will
always be remembered. Trees
dances with colors as it
paints you a canvas.
