A Harvest of Windblown Souls
To this wavering family tree
I’m but a withering leave
My rustling a plea to free
To flee my mind’s sieve
Though their love is evergreen
Having strayed too far from my roots
I’m the first to fall this season
I crunch beneath the march of boots
To this quivering branch
I wish to be a fertile seed
Far beyond its clenching reach
Lest I end up mere bird-feed
A scattered golden existence
Trampled by uncaring soles
A slow death marks our brown existence
A harvest of windblown souls
Copyright © Thabang Ngoma | Year Posted 2016
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