On the 27th of July
An ugliness mounted its assault,
leaving in its past a confused chaos.
Smoking embers of a life amid
muffled cries of depression are all that's left.
Discordant whimpers rise from the desolation of the one
in lonely isolation.
The reports seem preposterous.
Can they not be true?
A darkness wraps itself around
The refuse heaped on the ground.
The sun is gone and even weariness is used up.
Even the strength of prayer founders,
losing the battle to the grotesquely formed
branches of the long dead hickory tree.
And all that is heard is a mocking laughter
Perched on the unfriendly horizon.
You have a unique way of painting a picture with words.
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