I remember the days of the dry river bed
gray clouds, thick with rain that never fell.
Fresh wounds, raw and starting to swell
with the promise of blood, the slow red rain
that will wash those dry stones
and unleash torrents of old pain.
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Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: July 3rd, 2025 19:40
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
This is a powerful poem and in its simplicity and metaphor it takes the heart of the reader. A fave
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