scorched grass

the grass here is scorched.

weak and frail,

snapping under the will

of even the mildest wind. 

the edges of each of the blades are just that;

blades. 

each one slicing and cutting,

like many small razors. 

the tips glow white with heat,

like a metal rod out of flame,

casting an eerie glow 

that illuminates the bleak, ashen sky. 

in this forsaken land,

there stands a dead tree,

who shriveled and died long ago.

but still remembers the days of a better time. 

and upon the horizon there shines a light

that seems to chase away the darkness. 

it tempts with its light,

all people in search of a place better than this. 

but i have gotten close enough to the light, 

close enough to see what it truly is. 

for it revealed itself to me. 

revealing a new truth to fear

for along the seams of what is a fabricated reality,

a darkness seeps out,

an ancient shadow cloaking itself in light. 

oh, what a blasphemous disguise!

so i fall back into my home. 

but where i expected to be cut,

i was caught. 

and when i expected to be burned,

i was warmed. 

the sun has come out,

showing it's face,

casting a long forgotten glow over the land,

and the flowers bloomed 

and the grass grew,

and the world was better for it. 

a tear came to my eye, 

and i cried at the beauty

of salvation,

of peace,

and of tranquility. 

but that dead tree remains,

standing as a testament to that which was, 

wasn't, 

and is again once more. 

upon the shriveled branches of the tree,

a bird chirps a song of hope.