The Last Harvest

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Sweat falls into cracked lines of time,

Dry earth rests upon my worn face.

Yet hidden seeds of hope remain;

In ash, old dreams still find their place.

***

Grey hairs rise like stubborn wild grass;

Still I turn the soil once more.

Time spits upon my face-I plant again,

Though life feels like a binding chore.

***

Ancient aches within my bones,

Songs of loss I cannot name.

Seasons and sons taught me to bend,

Yet every wound still burns the same.

***

Family and fields-mere strokes of luck,

When seasons bless, life takes its yield;

But when time turns its face away,

All turns to waste, like choking weeds.

***

No cup is free from hidden poison;

Such luck is rare in any life.

We drink what time has mixed for us,

Bitter as truth, and sharp as strife.

***

Debts rise and fall through our lives;

Like tides that never truly end.

Like an old slave bowed by the years,

Yet still I refuse to break or bend.

***

A rope hangs tight ’tween love and demand;

We strain like bulls that plough the land.

Pulling on without a pause,

Bound by need, yet giving all.

***

Poison flows within my veins;

Still my mind denies its age.

New seeds grow before dim eyes,

Writing life on another page.

***

Under this harsh, burning sun,

I stand bound to something still-

Slave to one chain or another,

Yet I bend, but not my will.

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