---

For, what is ours, will be yours, one day soon, Little One.


As, the leaf turns black, to fall, too, upon our graves.


Grave, too, the days, where compassion’s

mud exhumed covers pasture’s bloom

with our disdain.


The courage within our clay,

that fought amongst the sooth,

has hardened — meek, along the way-

side and cracked upon our tooth.


So, what do we leave for you, Little One?


But, battlegrounds where lies bury shady roots, sowed by darkness in fair eyes, for troubled stem and leaf to shoot.


O, Little One, I shan’t obstruct the truth.


Whilst, we wither and decay. For, now, it is upto you.


To comb the river and the brae;


For, wisdom’s hair,

renewed,

on their chins,

below the noose.


And, pluck the strands,

you may, you choose,

to be planted,

by deluge.


So, that, Little One,

the next time,

that we speak,

in the twilight,

by the creek.


I’ll meet your kin,

their spirit’s saved,

and mine will be a star,

a guide that you wished for,

aside you, at New Moon.


© poormansdreams

---

---