by Caleb Johnson about a year ago in nature poetry

Pebbles, not sand...


Pebbles, not sand, hindered their feet.

Drenched souls, so cold, yet passion they meet.

Every cloud, every drop, meant to be.

Just as truthful, in love, nearly.

Lust is the way in which they went,

No heart nor feel had the L’s content.

Young, premature, they refused to know.

Years from then, an evident low.

This man now realises what that was,

A boy that swore he was at loss.

But how does one lose what he never cared for?

It wasn’t his heart that disconcertingly tore.

The criminal, the squanderer sits in this seat,

A lifetime he’s used to somewhat mistreat,

The people who love and cherish, endure,

That careless young boy can see no more.

If he is the one to confront and confirm,

A lesson so long taken to learn.

If he is the one to climb that scarce tree,

Let that unworthy killer be me.

nature poetry
Caleb Johnson
Caleb Johnson
Read next: I'm Tired...
Caleb Johnson

“Enquire no deeper than you need into what set these veins on fire, note simply that they bleed.” - Valentine Ackland

See all posts by Caleb Johnson