Poetry

Overhead

dragonink90

No birds circle anymore, only griffins, whose

wingbeats hurricane  through the grass

as they claim the right to own the free air.

They fish for green thieves seeking to steal their glinting aluminium treasures.

The twelves hours of day

crumble like biscuits underfoot,

each minute fractured by the bloodied sand

where they leave them to die.

 

 

Published by dragonink90

I'm an autistic author of fantasy and speculative fiction, and also a poet.