Brisk and colorless,
A pitted husk masks the ceiling,
The green earth rocking back and forth.
Horses halt before the golden trenches,
On this brisk autumn night,
Wind shaking their docile springs.
Your tongue raises to another tone,
Proclamations of the weathered elements,
And places of shadowed glory.
Covered in the dirt of yesterday’s work,
The walls dissolve more slowly during the day.
Feel lost in a sea of porridge,
A father or mother gleaming to see what else of me,
An aftermath of the forgotten.
Mildew rotting a triumphant foundation,
Rusted metal clinks against time:
A sun shadowed by the linens lined in gold and green.