Annie's Poetry

Clouds drift and cover the moon                            

mists, wind like rivers, through the trees               

a nightingale sings a mournful tune                       

and there is the taste of salt, upon the breeze

     

Petals, velvet, and dripping, are carelessly strewn

the be-darkened night, does not heed the pleas      

the end is nigh, too soon, too soon                        

the trees, now empty, and broken, like me