The dying crops in our fields were taken.
They've left us with nothing, but
my devotion to words will never be shaken.
You toiled over work 'till your legs were breaking.
Then like locusts they cut
the dying crops. In our fields they'd taken.
Now I sit with these words I'm making
about the crops stolen. (My lips are shut.)
My devotion to words will never be shaken.
No matter how hard we try those fields are forsaken.
We've been left with naught.
The dying crops in our fields are taken.
Now with just us left, your bones are aching.
One day, I promise, we shall burn the lot.
My devotion to words will never be shaken.
Tomorrow at dusk they will awaken
to find the gates have shut.
The dying crops in our fields were taken
but my devotion to words will never be shaken.
YOU ARE READING
From Here To There
PoetryA cluster of poetry done through experimenting with form or just simply what I call "Sky-Train poetry."
