the dry trashes <br />and ashes <br />of the beige grass, <br />i pass <br />each time i walk through so fast <br />at last, <br />i grossly lost much in must <br />and dust <br />out the green in trust, <br />the stain <br />on my blood stained <br />body of pieces had drained <br />and laid, <br />with pain <br />as my eyes failed <br />to glance at the tailed <br />mask within the faded <br />gothics and denied <br />the grass <br />a drop of rain, <br />in cold nights <br />of dry daylight <br />as i walked by the dry grass <br />i pass <br />each time i walk through so fast <br />at last <br />so dry like the grass <br />in seasons of winter <br />like wild fires in the deep jungles <br />blown away by the winds of troubles <br />swept astray to find so lost like bubbles <br />of the matters ahead of us....<br /><br />Onalethuso Petruss Ntema<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-grass-8/
