Solemn Harvest

My arms droop, heavy with burden. My voice tangled with mouthfuls of filth. My tears lather my face and wash me over, in hopes to cleanse this sickening plague. My eyes wander behind the curtain. The sun seeks my arms in his embrace. My legs whimper and drain away, as I move away and hide in my lament. I seek ideals of redemptive violence, a heroic act of bravery. No laurels in this raw conviction; I swing against the wretched beast. My fight is whimsical and tone-deaf. I carry only figures on wooden crosses. My heart measures the voices that left, and thus, my tears are my companions. The spirit of our people has come to a complete wash. For I bled for a quick rinse, but others of the same feather congregate to solemnly harvest the last sprigs of hope.