Bathed in the Crimson Rye

He who walks behind the rows

Defiling earth by plough, 

Swathing sheaths of errant plight

By the teeth of the gaping maw.

Thudding along the croft

In the trampling of the crowd

Stripped of belief,

Beyond split straw reeds,

Bathed in the crimson rye

Treading where Thanatos swaths 

Swiping on Pluto's breath

Each press Persephone taunts 

When stamping on her chirping chest.

Eyes: a glaive—cutting ivory pallor 

Smiting wintered words foraging scenes,

A white-noise panzer crosses a killing cold

Grunting bones of the elderly.

These errors of pain 

Brought peace to the pen

In the fumarole hours 

Where none of it surfaced

A spruce & a wreathe 

Wrapped the very view, unnerving 

Moving snow to flee 

In the dusted scatter of mourning

Sadness keeps me awake for endless hours

Loneliness keeps me company

All of my days have gone on in circles 

No advancement, in reality.

When its inches turn to feet, 

And those feet then run the yard,

The more distance that I place from thyself 

Adds to my problems solved.