Poetry Blogs (2020, human touch)

Grave

I am the scythe that cuts through old and young

In cornfields where the idle crows watch on

As scarecrows flap their arms in summer sun

And wonder where the greedy birds have gone

The weeds grow now where once the sharp blade fell

Stealing from us all that we once held dear

There are no devils in this weeping hell

Only children transformed through pain and fear

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