The sunset sings its sorrowed song
Of shadows shared in shameful shacks;
How night will never know the name
Of travelers who leave not trail nor tracks –
The grass, it grows on ground and grave,
The weeds grow wild, where they will;
The sunset sings its sorrowed song,
And stuck, I stay here,
Static,
Standing
Still
… oh my … this is so sad …
Thanks, Sherrie. It was supposed to be an exercise in alliteration, but, it turned into something more.
Yes, but perfectly written, my friend.
You are, indeed, quite good in writing with few words.