Four Foot High

The grass that grows four foot high

Encroaches all my view,

It ivies up the coaches' wall

And plucks off all the hope;

I have seen it in the sometimes,

A trail along my feet,

In the corner of the portrait

And the edge of every plant;

Do you hear the mourning tolls

Chime as I take steps home?

There are warnings in the everyday;

There's trouble in that foliage.

It has sight, that four foot high,

It climbs into a skin,

That evil of the sin of life,

Remains, grows ever higher, ever more.

The End

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