The Orange Grass.

In a vast stretch of resonating green,

Every root tickled into fits of laughter

And tips swayed in perpetual cadency.

A little too passion a little too heat

Of the two, one swept off its feet

Like a rock crumbling into sand.

The heart charmed by munificence

Begged and yet bereft of repletion,

That every crumb yearned.

The incessant craving, relentlessly spurned.

A mediocre zephyr churns a part

At times, a hasty gust carries it away

Still more is bred in what’s left.

In the vast stretch of green

Now lies a patch of orange grass

In a fear of extermination

Harboring a flickering hope

And waiting for the green,

To someday, turn akin.

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2 thoughts on “The Orange Grass.

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