The clouds painted overhead
are the works of the lates
every great debate
lost within the strokes
of every hoax.
The wind in the air
is filled of words
of every author whom ever cared.
The sea is filled of saline
secreted by the lacrimal glands
of every soldier fighting for their land.
The grass is fertilized
by the wars amongst strangers
and the wars amongst friends.
The dirt remains it’s dark and heinous color
from all the odor
piling and mixing together.
And nothing is left untainted
by human touch.
-Recently I’ve been looking through old notebooks and came across this poem.
Thanks for reading Temperamentally Tina.
Temperamentally Tina 