Green Grass

Green grass withered with ease, upon the neglect of weary hands.

God, it seems to beg with plea's, to richly meet your strong demands.

It tries and tries so faithfully, but brown becomes its color depleted.

For under nature's spell so devilishly, hope's bright hues have only retreated.

Now the grass turned brown and cold, will die with each passing night.

For who shall render with hands so bold, a reversal of nature through arduous might.

It is I who gather the grass in hand, and whisper sweetly what words I know.

But my flesh, icy and callous-bland, cannot convince the grass to grow.

So gone is green as brown ensues, reaching towards its unfit rest.

And it is I who pay the required dues, as decay consumes what has been left.