Brown paper shreds,
Sway in the wind.
The smell of dry death,
Hangs on each breath.
The promise of this year,
So sweet to them now,
The worry of what might,
Always at mind.
The sick sweet smell,
Of beautiful destruction.
The end of a life,
The support of another.
Sweet dusty joy,
Sad broken life.
The harvest moon,
Hath shown its face.
The time has come,
Seize the day.
The once live field,
Now desolate dead.
The once green crop,
Now brown paper shreds. |