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A whispering of morning dew
dances on emerald leaves
the color of equisite emerald
As the sky turns a prism
reflecting God's beauty.
An intircate masterpiece
Ravaged by greed of man,
By those thought connoisseurs,
collectors of fine art.
Yet, most magnificent work of all
tossed carelessly into the furnace
of a manmade abyss.
Burning slowly, wax dripping
like the sand of Father time
each hot sticky drop
a world once thought divine.
Collecting in a basin
held in weeping hands...
The artist near forgotten
A distant dream, once hollowed land.
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This is a sensative and pretty piece of poetry. It would probably receive more, and better, reviews by poets if it were placed in the poetry area of faithwriters. Keep writing!
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