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Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #2200437
Field of my dreams.
I live in withering heights of ruin.
I’d like to slap him around, back arched in bowed fear when he is near.
But I don’t dare, I’ll be creamed while his corns are acting up again.
Morning wakes up and stirs so that I fear what day brings
after night is clear where this nightmare began and begun unseen.
Eye of barely kept woman belong to me and mine stare back.
I carry around crow heart feeling outstretched on petrified wood,
scared to death when black out occurs with a million to one birds.
Crown of barbed wire is wasted, burning rusty red on the scariest scarecrow
with scalped flaming hair.
Rope burned wrist twist forces vine to entwine ankle going high,
wrapping leg and tightening corn belt for lean times
when gleaning is our harvest.
Scarecrow scratches corn stubble beard when looking at crucifix
fallen from crossed well kept women whose sin are manifest
during a maiden cornfest confession.
Now I meditate out loud, things kept to myself.
As time passes I have grown sweetly, a stalked beauty having heavy dewfall
tears on ears with corn that hear birds caw never more,
never more will we be hungry.

The End.
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