Brooding

There is something dark that overshadows the mellow fields.

It feels cloudy.

No, it’s not going to rain–

Mother cried last night

The wash basin was overflowing

I need a ghost buster

In this ghosted town

Where the wind sings to the trees

And the trees shrug back,

I see, I forsee,

Slash and burn

And picking up the remains

Looking into the pot of ashes

For hope.

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