Ground

talks of death

There's this talk of death

lingering six feet beneath the ground

it talks to the grass and the trees

of the rainy season of June

They sing a song of lullabies

No one really understands,

The lyrics were subtle chants of

neoligism, and it was beautiful

Cherophobia.

They don't wish joyful songs

Neither for the rain to come

They just stood lifeless, in the shadows

Drought and suffering rooted

their green, luscious bounty

The grin in their faces,

facades of withering joys,

and forgotten tomorrows

Only yesteryears of happiness

inside the ground.