Desolate

Desolate

A Beautiful Woman
Clad in flowing linen
Wavy brown locks billowing behind her
Astride a strong horse
Galloping like the wind
Carrying rider as though she were but a feather
But deceiving are her looks
For she harbors a ravenous hunger
A lust that cannot be sated
She reaps what man sows,
Steals the fruits of his labor
She draws the very moisture from the air
To slake her gluttony
So must the husbandman
Watch as his toil withers and dies
His fields become dust
His work, ash
The land is left barren
The ground, scorched
The villages,
Desolate