I guide my eyes to an open field,
alabaster grain against blackened steel,
no prayer to parallel the scythe and sway,
reaping success from dedicated miracles.
Sweet sweat burns sun soaked lips,
parched in body and blood.
I clasp my hands in a darkened room,
bleached critique scribbled abyssal words,
no calligraphy to scrawl with muse and pen,
enchanting lies from deliberate myths.
Delirious thoughts haunt the sleepless man,
terrorized in being and blood.
I lend my shadow to the tired thicket,
ashen stone molded sable names,
no remembrance to recall the forgotten and family,
fading dates from bygone graves.
Growing tendrils sweep the unclaimed,
surviving on time and blood.