Harvest
Noonday,
The harvest keepers say there is none to be had,
That they wish there were, that they would be glad.
They take one step back and lightly smile,
head moves in a earthbound motion.
Seems a polite and subtle bow,
As they turn away they smile,
In a most peculiar style.
A stretching gash across the soul.
The eyes blink slow,
The flame mellow and low.
Strange people make mysterious motions
I cannot understand.
Each breathe I take
There is less to be had.
It's not a wonder
Poor souls go mad.
Light dawns through the window
My mind is clear, reborn.
Only to collect
New and more thorny thorns.
At last I hear the horn,
Beautiful free of scorn.
Images of glory are born.
They appear in the wind, and then are gone.
Ascend to the heights with the wisdom of the thorn,
But know it comes from the rose.
I try to remember,
I keep it pinned to my clothes.
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