The Children Pick up bones,
like its where our leftover emotions,
will hold the memories for us,
for them, They are quick as foxes,
as we used to be,
as autumn finally came,
These Children sniff the wind,
Smelling the Frost from within,
But for now they smell the sharp grape sent,
and that at least is still left,
For the children pick up our bones,
We Left much more,
The Children pick up our bones,
and see what we saw,
the stars gaze, the clouds,
from the roofs of our house,
or beyond when locked up inside,
the Sent of the windy sky, blew though,
The Children Pick up our bones,
to be educated on our driven to despair,
our lack of, because we know whats to come,
Children Please listen up,
you will speak our speech,
and never know,
Our spirits left behind,
a storm brewing in the walls,
waiting to strike,
Destruction to the house,
the the rest of the world to come next,
with you, children left in the shadows,
left out in the dust, able to fix destruction,
by seeing past the clouds,
and smear the world in a gold like the sun,
my interpretation/ rewrite*kindsorta* of a postcard from the volcano by Wallace Stevens
I am doing a report on Wallace Stevens for one of my classes and that one poem I loved and when I wrote his/my interpretation on the side it was a poem so of course I had to post it.