A wakedness is bleeding in,
The weight of which crushes,
Down into the earth,
Pressed into a reluctant slumber.

But there around the fringes,
Though this  boulder sits heavy,
Light bleeds in,
Hinting freedom exists yet.

The days race by,
Choice turns to prison,
A river runs dry,
Dread and distant.

The reaver of yellow,
Stalks part from grain easy,
A sickling blade bleeds hollow,
Rash and ragged, hurried heresy.

Header image by Benjamin Zanatta on Unsplash.