Tag: Poetry isn’t Boring

  • The Weary Traveler

    The Weary Traveler

    Amongst the mountains a mist has settled, blinding white like snow, flows through the valley wide and deep, where no man dares to go. The sun is shinning atop the hills, the great curved sweeping planes, the green grass shines like velvet, with dew from the last rains. The trees before me, straight and tall,…