Poem -
Reaper
Betwixt the mower's reaping iron,
A crumped life does lie.
The blood thick and crimson bright,
That spilled now dyes the rye.
The promise of the morn's bright sun,
Was granted way up high.
But from her blooded flesh no more,
She’ll feel its burning sigh.
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Comments
Hello Louis...
Welcome to Cosmo!
I know that guy...
I met him a few times...
He smells awful doesn't he?
I think he needs some Lume...
Great write!
Thank you for sharing...
sparrowsong
Thank you! :)