Work Text:
The rows of swaying oat
under the autumn sun turn
bleak
bleached, they droop against her skin
painstaking harvest scattered
The Earth beloved covers like a
Shroud
Shrouded in darkness,
Silence The sweet songs of little larks
Are far, nestled and woven
with the wilting verdancy above
The darkness is silent
Silence swathes his pallid being
And crowns his head of bleached gold
And curls reverently in her ichor
She does not weep
The dead weep, so she does not.
(“She might as well.” Says the great shadow
With a smile.
All teeth, no kindness)
The arils spill, plentiful
fragile and fragrant
from their soft, immature skin
Her finger dips, the flesh gives
Bleeds, yields
But not of the ruler
(Never the ruler Eternity shadows his feet).
The sweetness melts on her tongue
sullying
Oh- the daffodils shall
Sleep
In this life,
The larks shall grieve
The bountiful harvest shall rot
The Earth shall crack.
Oh—your eyes are
The poisonous arils
That shackle my weary shell,
Stains crimson
my fingers.
He laughs so lightly
“I can only hope—
Hope the winter moon
Shall never set”
(Far away,
Shall the daffodils
slumber eternally.)
