Scything What Sown

Poem by: Wayward Troubadour

Summary

A harvest that means so much more.

Content

Submitted: May 23, 2008

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Content

Submitted: May 23, 2008

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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


© Copyright 2016 Wayward Troubadour. All rights reserved.

Scything What Sown

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry

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Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry

Houses:

Summary

A harvest that means so much more.
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