Death yields a harvest...

The words of one who is overcome by the fearful destiny of death.

Golden bars make no less a prison

than a coffin on a hill.

And in caged reformation,

one wanders aimless still.

The rafters now a recollection

of sacred suppression.

How the morning dawn

strikes mourning confession.

Now Death yields a harvest

of the living masses.

We walk toward its path

no earthly power surpasses...

 

Reviews

[April Child]

Now Death yields a harvest
of the living masses.
We walk toward its path
no earthly power surpasses.

Indeed. We can't fight it, run from it or change it. It is the only surety that we will all eventually have to face.
This is quite an awe inspiring poem, bringing us face to face with our mortality. Makes me want to go and grab as much from life as I can :)

[[untitled]]

Good poem. It seemed to flow easy with the words you chose. The rythem was good. I liked it.

[E. M. Murren]

Powerful work. This is deeply meditative. It offers the reader something to think about. I like this a lot. Well done.