<< John's Poems

Whispering souls drift through the endless oceans of life. From Children’s lips to deaths ears, the sunsets but never rises. Soft laughter blows through tree branches, trees that are barren, just like the pastures. Farmers still go to reap the fields, holding apples only they can see. The apples are never eaten or never die, for once the Farmer lets it go, it ceases to exist returning to the where it came.

© John