The Lonely Harvest

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