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Erosion
March 4, 2015
You wear the face I hate--
I'm transfixed on your sky-blue ocean eyes
But all I can see is your Old Man of the Mountain grimace,
After he crumbled
It all started as you seemed to wither
Like a delicate white flower slowly,
Decaying;
Petals caressing the rugged terrain
I’m a tree weakening, plunging,
On the forest floor but no one is there to hear me
Leaves rustling with wind fanning the vegetation
And the cure for darkness slowly fades away
As your disguise vanishes with the wind
© Sarah C., Hillsdale, NJ
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