Poetry

[Reaper]

My tongue is a desert.
Words blown about, desolate,
uninhabited, feared.

My eyes are an over-painted
slick cliche, blinking
across a rusted atrocity.

My hands have aged from
under-use, hesitant
to reap a bounty forsaken.

When my words were like
clean water and seeds,
making the ice fields glow;

when my fingers drew fibers
from your heart
in golden strands, conjoining;

I would have borne
the agony of my senses
to stitch our worlds together.

The mud has swallowed
my intentions, vomited
a shell-shocked copy you

court with more courtesy
than the truth springing from
my bones like crystal shards.

In a world of neon saturation,
drowning in the freedom of
anonymous slavery,
I did not stop shining.