To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
As The Scythe Sweeps Through The Wheatfield With the morning star's ascendance comes the death of dreaded night and with echoes of resplendence, it reveals our desperate plight. In this compelling hour, when we feel our deepest fears, we can hear the wondrous winds of change whispering in our ears. In that instant of remembrance, when visions fade from sight, souls are scarred in searing solitude and healed by holy light. Somewhere upon a solemn stage someone sings a hollow song. The words tell of an ancient rage that has lasted far too long. If you look beyond horizons, past your gasping breath, you will feel the tentacles of time and lose your fear of death. As the scythe sweeps through the wheatfield and the chaff is cast away, though ten thousand tongues will try to talk there'll be nothing left to say. |
Sorry, there are no critiques for this poem in our system... If the poem is older, the critiques have been purged!