Freshly Cut

It burned like wild fires 

You can see the haze 

On the horizon.

Light would creep slowly 

Over the mountain’s 

Cool autumn air. 

Seagulls chirping over the breeze;

Turned smoggy air. 

Ashes failing from the heavens, 

The smell of death. 

Loss and heavy grief, bleedings hearts, 

Like those you find near freshly cut

Tree stumps. 

Published by Ms. Selective

Traveling Gypse with a Heartfelt Spirit.

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