The moon glittering; Threading silver and gold Through the still sheet of flowing navy Rocking gently against its prison-like walls Blue hands cling onto the ground Inching with each grab closer to the rattling trees Which chatter as the soft wind blows through its dyeing growth. The next day the hands become weak, Give up and stop reaching, Instead retreating back into the dark depths in which the dirt-walls keep hostage.
They dig sometimes. Moving. Eroding. Extending their prison and sometimes, with the clouds- pitter, patter, splish, splash – they overflow, breaching the high walls and some of the lucky ones spill out peering over the barricade. Gazing up to see gold rising in the horizon and Streaks of pink and orange dancing In the ashen blue Now they can cope For the sky brings with it a little hope.
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