Scything What Sown

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A harvest that means so much more.

Submitted: May 23, 2008

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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


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