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Scything What Sown

Poetry By: Wayward Troubadour

A harvest that means so much more.

Submitted:May 23, 2008    Reads: 89    Comments: 4    Likes: 2   

I look on, my grim hood high
My terrible blade scraping the sky I offer a sneer, never to be seen A violent motion and the quick flees Held fast, the grain stood tall Stained golden in the light of the Fall Dead there drying your crippled husk Slowly there dying your awful dust I remember when planed, the joy in my heart Now so morbid, so icy, so dark Go now; the reap won't heal Leave now for the others' meal


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