Reaper Anamnesis

An old man in a flannel shirt,
with sweat-beads on his wrinkled brow
Kneads the ground with tender care,
runs his fingers through departing hair,
pulls the seeds with which he sows
the future, past, and present dirt.

These stalks of memory born in death,
outgrowths of this ancient's strife,
slowly rise, approaching life,
Reach for the sun and draw first breath.

The locusts eat the proudest heights,
who rise above, with gentle greed,
Those who do not eat the light,
with their frequency of frenzied feed.

The weaker lose the forever game
of eat and eaten, still the same.
Toppled from their upright stance,
They perform a decomposing dance,
melting into the soil deep,
and, into darkness, they subtly leap.

Left among the battlefield
stand stalks, in comfort, of median shield.

The reaper comes, with roaring sweep,
with wings and hooves of newborn sheep,
and cuts the wheat - these stems of time,
collects them in his singing vase,
each grain a slowly opening face
rejoicing in the light sublime.

His eyes, that burn with bluish fire
do pierce the open container-cave,
evaporating hopes of dawn,
and furnish it with air deprave.

Dissolving lives, they scream in pain,
for death comes swiftly to their door,
and caring not for nature's poor
they feel their existence spent in vain.

Yet, not for worthlessness they die,
as, becoming a orange, yellow, green,
black and crimson mass of dust
they bear the warning of their lives
To whom exposed forcibly must
ever, forever, pay some heed.

The reaper gives this fertile soil
to the noble elder hand,
who as before, and before then still,
will spread the remains of their toil,
arrayed upon the tender land
and subsequently, shall gently till.