The seasons shift as they go on,
one rain, one snow and not much sun.
The horses in the field are living
with their numbered days to entertain.
One rain one snow and not much sun,
we sit on the haystack and count the hours,
homage we give to the numbered days.
The dead old grass gives way to new beginnings
but we sit on the haystack and count our days;
clouds taint the sky.
The dead old grass gives way to new beginnings,
and the once powerful horses grow weary.
The clouds taint our sky,
but we fixate on the field--
the once powerful horses grow weary,
rolling and dwelling in stagnance.
About the Creator
isa
There was a young man named Bob
who desperately needed a job.
Everywhere he looked
said they were booked,
so he searched for a bank to rob.
The Golden Valley
The difference between light and dark could be as quick and simple as a flip of a switch, the drawing of a curtain, the opening of one’s eyes. It could be more gradual like the slow adjustment of the diaphragm on a microscope, the turn of a planet on its axis, the growing light as you approach the end of a tunnel. A flicker in the dark, a steady glow in the distance, a flash in the night sky.
By Alyssa Nicole4 days ago in Fiction
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