Fog gathers around the emerald mountain.

Climbing in silence.

Faint mist lays dew on the fresh leaves.

Hollow trees sway; birds lay,

resting in their homes away from prey.

Swift motion all around.

Singing softly in the crowd.


Distractions pull her from her wicked thoughts,

thoughts of droughts, evil, and peril.

Night comes as a relief.

Gone again another restless day.

Hope arrives for unawakened slumber.


Poe, the poet, knew.


Left is misery on the person.

Please don't worsen.

Fields of doom leave no room,

none for laughter, smiles, or home.

All gone, all lost.


Home especially.

Where has it gone?


The sun has disappeared from sight


All that's left is an endless night.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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