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

sealed up

into an angry,


blistering, scarlet-scathing,


that oozed

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.