Brenden Pettingill


Dried creek beds
Longing for their tears
Something amongst the fallen leaves
of dust covered hopes and floors

Traited trunks stand witness
Still in their helplessness
Showered in light and love
The peddle-stood savior says it best

When the gates open again
If will not be told of now and then
Silted soils will be quenched

From the fallen drops of past mistakes
Slid down the hopeful cheeks
of a Nature of Mother’s men

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