Beside the farmer shed

The shed outside holds nothing.
  The moon shines brightly but alas
there is nothing still.

A dusty window pane
staind with the ashes of the ages,
dramatic fires, and melancholy waters.



The moon was counting crows
by row, by row, by row.
Among the hedges, beside the ring
where farmers often sowed.

That which would be life,
and through the pains of strife.
Life, would flourish...
into a twilight garden sight...

The farmer sowed as he should.
but no rose ever blossom,
could no beautiful words echo?

Not one? to break the stilling airs delight?
To break free into the roaring night?
No...what would bring life has brought a storm
ripped all that was sowed into her hands.



She took all except the shed

and left him defensless, alone...



Ruining a life, left to wither, to be dead

The farmer now lays beside, the lonesome empty shed