Scything What Sown

My terrible blade scraping the skyI offer a sneer, never to be seenA violent motion and the quick fleesHeld fast, the grain stood tallStained golden in the light of the FallDead there drying your crippled huskSlowly there dying your awful dustI remember when planed, the joy in my heartNow so morbid, so icy, so darkGo now; the reap won't healLeave now for the others' meal