The Harvest
These leavings are devastating.
I feel husked and scraped
The cobb cast on the bin
While destiny enjoys my entrails.
A continuous cycle of harvest
Where heaven receives the best
And the living are trodden by fate.
I have no words of comfort.
Just as I know consolations fall empty on your soul
I too know the cruelty of the crones scythe.
I can't share my anger or voice the injustice.
What fake platitudes do I offer?
That we can make wreaths
Woven of dried memories?
Pay homage to some harvest
where the feast is never presented?
Its okay. Im angry too.
anger can at least burn with a fire
to fight off the cold of the night.
Brazen with frustration
Beat our chest in indignation
woop and holler at the mighty powers
and hold our cherished little ones
while we tremble at night for their future.
Some where, I know, we are supposed to seek
Humility, grace, forgiveness.
But I need the fire tonight.
The pain is too vulnerable.
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