Image for the poem Flowers And Graves

Flowers And Graves

Caws of dark crows fill the forest edge, above my head, they roam the wide sky, casting ominous  screams into my innermost hearing like a nail, piercing my heart. and leaves a wide gap for the mind to ponder and fear the next to come..While The rocky hills send their Poetic Zephyr, awake a dormant wave of sad feelings.Taken into the hills and the pine forest, that lies beneath, i respond to natures' inner call, willingly following the beaten pathways, of shepherds and flocks, sometimes all along,i drift into Summer's musings, recalling the dead silence of the scorched evenings of glowworms and crickets, then i wake up, on crows' caws again like a black omen heralding a coming new storm  over my head.......      
Then the poetic feel hits its strings once again, pulling me to mountain's  fragrant zephyr, as i try to collect the shards of a human tragedy that hit the small town, between hills and valleys; lying down between wood claws and water fangs        
lurking, and prowling in shady weathers, to prey on the small village..tore the gloomy sky of heavens. burnt with ire and fire in the firmament higher..      
When Winter encounters Summer, a sparking emotion takes its toll on the weak ones down below, and sweeps dirt and remorse. leaves tears and flowers in its wake..      
Tears of heavens cleanse the sinner of its sins, the hater of his grudge and the pen of its ink that has been stuck in its throat, clogged, smothered with heavy breathing........      
I don't mourn my fate, but i mourn the budding flower that is lost, in its budding hours, drowned and taken into the flooding rains, growling torrents, a hurt that left my quill shed soulful ink, over a flower in the human field, while another poppy is born in the field beside a host of cheerful daisies, to give a fresh breath to life, we cherish we love to its last drop of ink....whatever happens.......      
Nature saves nothing to humans to atone for, she has the upper hand  to fix our own mistakes, when we put the wrong before the right and the adult before the child, and the small behind the tall, we walk against the grain, and try to turn the clock backwards.      
And again, May takes back what winter did leave or may be, forget give, into its cold caves. winds and showers and low temperatures.      
It sometimes recalls winter's tears and reacts with thunderstorms, and lightnings to tear the feeble flimsy hearts, after a tense span of time, been quiet and silently smothered, with heavy airs and thick's time to burn bright and break free from curbed sentiment and hidden rage...........      
May's drought prays winter for a tear to quench its thirst, to grow its crops, to water its dry rivers, but Winter, so generously hurtful vomits its raging flood, its showers and thunderstorms and killing floods....nothing runs with seasons' rhythm and god's rhyme, a dissonant haphazard melody that the sky won't hear and when heard, it will give very bad feedback !!!      
While every forth coming flower leaves a tear on its grave
Written by ThePoet632 (CrossWords)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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