The landscape
has turned into a carpet of crows,
winter desperate.
As hollow and cold
as a wayward soul.
Night bound.
Then, there are your eyes.
So dark, so black.
Just like obsidian, but still bright at the same time,
gleaming like a cotton field in the night.
as bereft as any corn farmer sowing drought.
The eyes scan the banks of a river
that is jumbled with the verdant barrage
of jungle plants
green enough to stir the memory
of once ripe fields.
Eyes like carbon
stare and see beyond
a velvet-lined box
kissing the notes of sorrow
last sealed upon your lips.
About the Creator
Lana Broussard
Lana Broussard writes primarily under the pen name, L.T. Garvin. She writes fiction, poetry, essays, and humor. She is the author of Confessions of a 4th Grade Athlete, Animals Galore, The Snjords, and Dancing with the Sandman.
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