Burning

The summer’s burned my hopes away.
We just don’t get along —
I planted hope just yesterday,
But that’s where I went wrong.

The wheat is burning in the field,
It’s yellow with frustration —
Intention, though, does not make yield,
Nor wish, precipitation.

The sun is cruel, the days they mock,
There really is no saying
Just what I take when I take stock
In all of this

Decaying

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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