The horizon is broken.
The sun has fallen from its seam.
The trees have risen black.
The clouds are enveloped in a violet flame.
The sky is bloody red
What has happened to my baby?
What has happened to my blue?
What has happened to my precious?
What has happened to the trees of green?
What has happened to my fluffy clouds?
And I cry tears of purest silver.
And I remember other days.
And I shiver in the icy wind.
And I follow a bright butterfly.
And the butterfly disappears.
Where has my butterfly flown off to?
Where is that joy?
Where has that innocence gone?
Where are those crayon rainbows?
Where are you?
YAY! you wrote it so well! I loved it! keep writing! : D
For those of us who remember playing with our big box of crayons, drawing rainbows and little families below, this creates a visceral effective image. I enjoyed reading this. Peace, L&T
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You have a great way with coming up with phrases. This is a large part of being a great poet. You have demonstrated that you have this vital tool in your kit. Even if, you don't have your crayons anymore. GW62