Meadow Truths

In the quiet sighs of the emerald fields,
a whisper of decay lingers stealthily.

The scent of unspoken failures dances with every gust,
invisible yet felt in the marrow of existence.

Truth in the meadow, ugly truth, is the silence after the storm,
the aftermath of whispers that never were spoken.

Shadows of forgotten dreams grasp at the roots,
yet none dare speak of their fading grasp.

The ugliest truth is not the one that shouts,
but the one that sits quietly, watching, waiting.