He Rests

Furrows End is where he rests, Beneath the moonlight in his vest, Eyes sewn shut so he never sees, Mouth taped shut so no one can here his pleas. Mumbling bag of bones is he, Once lived by the raging sea, A hermit of the oldish days, Now lays in this coffin where he decays. He once had a heart, But it was so violently torn apart, His soul long since taken away, Leaving nothing inside on that cold Novemeber day. He sleeps now beneath the dead moon, Hoping to be awoken someday soon, Awoken by the breath of life, Before he loses his sanity, To the reapers scythe.