Harrow, the wheat is wet by the summer rains
Slice and chop the chaff and crop every last grain
Upon my face the heat and warmth of the touch
Inside my heart the fire of the hate
Crop and cut and the burn the stubs
I can’t feel the same
The hill above is coved with clover and sundew and pain
I grip in my hands my mothers crown and perhaps fame
But am I my mothers child, or is it just her name?
In court we haggle, in offices we barter, we trade friends and play power games
Do they give the chance to those like me whom have not the brain?
No we crop the soil and tend the earth, when they bite on there good they thank us none the same
But the hill is always there, and the wheat. I am here cropping the wheat. A bug has eaten its pollen, and a worm has eaten the chaff. I will also be eaten one day.
Eaten, and consumed, like eyes on a perfect page of poetry that makes you feel insane.