Hope is the heather that grows on mountains of despair,
Sparse splotches of lively green and royal lavender,
Across the wide stripped grey of rocky graves.
It is not for the laymen on the paved busy paths,
Nor those high up who pay to fly on by with ease,
But those that seek struggle for existential masochism’s sake.
These tufty breaks from monotonous expanses of woe,
Quiver and shiver in the chilling altitude’s whisper,
Taunting with jeering whistles and drenching howls of loss.
But still they remain rooted and clinging by nature,
Against all odds, all time, all reason,
One day to blanket the range with inevitable colour.
#HI
About the Creator
Conor Matthews
Writer. Opinions are my own. https://ko-fi.com/conormatthews
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3:40am
There is a mourning in living, In waking every day, And remaining, Where the slings of fate can reach you, And conjure to your mind, Such futures immaterially real and forboding, That you pray for mercy, Pray for lacklustre and dry numb deadness, That you'd worry people if they chose to hear, If you chose to talk, If you made any choice at all, For once.
By Conor Matthews5 days ago in Poets
Field of the Fallen
Sunlight danced softly across the frost-crusted fields, making the little blades of grass sparkle like emeralds. The faraway chirrup of a songbird was the only disruption to the quiet of the morning. An icy chill, the last vestige of the dying winter, clung to the air, settling in a thick white mist at the far side of the open field. The heavy stench of decay hung in that mist, punctuation by the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.
By A. J. Schoenfeld7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (4)
Beautiful, and I love the picture!
This was absolutely beautiful Conor. I loved it!
Love the imagery here!
I loved this, and I love nature. Taunting with jeering whistles, and drenching howls of loss. Well Done!!!