The Lonely Harvest
We are
walking wounds,
seeping sores of
loss and
lamentation.
A swollen
sickly people
plowing into
one another
tearing at
the soil,
uprooting,
spreading seed,
for a slippery
second,
a breath…
of relief.
We bury
turmoil
in bodies.
Perpetually
planting
an incessant
harvest of
loneliness…
that madness,
of the sad.
We are
walking wounds
covered
crown to boot
in battle armor.
Fighting for life—
to the death.
A warring tribe
clashing bodies, yet
terrified
to touch
a soul.
author: rashael crystal
photo source: infinite-paradox
Rashael
You are supposed to cheer me up not depress me
I await your creative poetry on Vienna grappa and princess Chelsea
Listened to her music on the way to Stockholm
Cannot find A Rashael in Stockholm to lift my spirits
Ahahaaha!! But Tony, my broody poetry is so much better than the light-hearted ones! I hope you cannot find a Rashael anywhere, but I do hope you meet many new cheerful friends on your travels. Thank you for visiting my little corner of the web and my quips of poetry.