Free Range Poetry


Till!  I till until it seems the soil should boil with my toil.
Hoe!  I hoe each row in hopes my seeds will grow!
Sow!  I sow the seeds of desperate need into the earth below.
Reap!  I reap until I weep from this, my grain of pain.
Thresh!  With blistered flesh I thresh the pain still fresh from off the stalk.
Sell!  I carry well the fruits of pain to the market of my hell.
Raze.  I hurry home to set my wicked fields,
                      my ancient pain,
                                            my weary heart,

In the baptism of Autumn smoke, absolution lasts until…

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