An empty field,
Browned in the sun,
Ignored by the majority,
Until that weekend,
That jubilee of melodies and decibels,

Brought to life anew,
Once that stage is built,
The speakers began their rhythmic rants,
And the music flows through the soil,
Like water after a drought,

This patchwork of grass and tents,
It’s no longer a vacant space,
But a venue,
A place of memories and revelry,
Not to mention the firewater.

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Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    awesome writing 🙂

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