Never will You see my hands open
and you'll never see my pockets empty-
Even if they're only full of all I'm
The sky pries itself open, cracked and dry
only to be spilled and to bleed and drain
Yet nothing rises up to cross the barrier
of the trap door layer
Everything beneath becomes drenched
with this poor beggar- sky;
constantly cycling in its giving.
And as I try to walk
my thoughts onto paper
it comes to me-
this Story's about the farmer,
completely unlike the beggar sky,
and here's why:
The farmer, "lover of the land," opens up
his bastard hand
to grip the ruthless ground ripper.
Farmer tears a tender wound
into the ground, promising,
"Things will grow here soon."
Well maybe things will grow soon
and maybe millions of tears are doing the watering
because the sky up there is faltering
But maybe that little wound
into an angry,
because it did not want any seeds
Maybe it wanted dead bodies.
Here's where the farmer re-enters the story,
where things take a turn for the dark and gory.
In the end, who wears the power?
Who sinks in lower? Look closer-
It is not the reaper, but the sower.