Hear him call, the knock on wood that fell from a tree for paper to use by thee. Hear him shout, whilst ye sit in the corner all alone. No one can hear him call. Cheerful, stout; "God's name, what is this man yelling about?" Heart of Gold, sincere with a pout; sitting in the corner listening, can't make out. Silence becomes words, a stern look, no frown, for what's delivered is honest, shivering through and through; words become silent; cheerful, renewed. No more, no nothing, here and the now, bewildered, feeling a frown? "Look, you'll see, this gift I gave you."
About the Creator
James Green
Weaving words into captivating worlds, this author's storytelling will transport you to realms of imagination and leave you breathless.
Profiles and content: https://linktr.ee/gr33ngr33n
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HILLS
Look to the hills, where the air is fresh with the odour of blooming daffodils. "Hello?" The sun, so warm in the sky, blazing down upon hills, fresh with daises. "Pleasure to me you." Roll in the grass, cartwheel down the hills. "I can't believe we met." So much green, so many hills, the air so fresh, the smell of summer, sweet. "This has to be a dream?" Not a cloud in the sky, blue, so far and wide. "It's not." Bloom, everywhere, blossom, day. "I'm so happy we met." Daisy chains, yellow-white daffodil cups, grass stains. "Me too." No rush, whole day.
By James Green4 years ago in Poets
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