Brown Grass

By Brianna G Shullai

I fear what it is, appalled by what it is to be. It arms itself, the latter by latter, sallow in a paralytic’s rage. Prickles as countenance, conniving by evening. “Flee away, depart!” I say and it laughs inevitable in its ebbing. Perhaps it is of me to wonder, in pity – in pity of its creator, in pity of hue.

In deep ponder of whom the piteous, a plague upon my feet! Frangible yet meek, and although barbed yet urging it is the tempt of the bleak! I drive my limbs across, as if the wind, addle as man, as much of an aficionado as man, hauls the seen, leaving behind my immorality.

By Brianna G Shullai