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Sharing Our Sorrow:

Sickle

T. Thorn Coyle

Soon comes the Reaper.
At what price is our harvest?
Uncertain yield of hope
Tiled in another time,
A gentler season.
What seeds are left
On cracking ground?
Who mows the bearded grasses
Fragrant in the Summer's sun?

Such heavy fruits remain
To feed those lovers left behind.
Windfall bitter tart
With metal's tang.
The lush to pick so sweet with
Lifetimes' ripened flesh.
The scythe is of the cycle.
Weary shoulders ache to burning.
Cut to die.

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