The Harvest

These leavings are devastating. I feel husked and scraped The cobb cast on the bin While destiny enjoys my entrails. A continuos cycle of harvest Where heaven recieves the best And the living are trodden by fate. I have words of comfort just as i know they fall empty on your soul I too know the cruelty of the crones scithe. 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. And anger can at least burn with a fire that fights off the cold of the night. Brazen with frustrstion 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.