Frets the farmer on the plow,
unmoved, the field foregoes.
Vane, through harvests that don't last,
grounded, are those who came to pass.
Ancestors wore down by forgotten toils
as ashes, begotten embers,
but lo -
the field, remembers?
If that's so - I'm not mistaken,
nothing truly goes forsaken.
Wildflowers and brushwood,
I'll be the sweat of their brows.
About the Creator
M.
Half-time writer, all time joker. M. Maponi specializes in speculative fiction, and speculates on the best way to get his shit together.
Author of "Reality and Contagion" and "Consultancy Blues"
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A Glaring Omission
I made peace with being cast out by others pretty early in life. As lonely as it may sound, I don’t recall many times during childhood when those actions affected me any longer than a moment or two. Being deemed the weird/gay/weird gay freak by everyone from neighborhood kids to blood relatives allowed me the privilege of sneaking away whenever I pleased to dive deeper into hobbies that molded the proud pop culture geek and writer I am today.
By Jonathan Apollo5 days ago in Psyche
Comments (1)
Nice one! This one deserves some more attention.