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.
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