My ears tune-in to the sweet sound of the sparrow,
whistling high pitched songs just o’er the rocky ledge;
and the wind blows a howling reminder of a life
grown cold, blowing away memories; my body
lies still, the once spirited wheat now flattened
beneath me, matted down by the heaviness
of my burdens; my eyes stare up into a sky of
emptiness, a fitting resemblance of my soul; to
wonder if there really are others stirring about,
in a time when I feel so alone; tree branches
sway above my resting place, a single leaf
falls to the ground; there is silence as I watch
even the sun fade away, running from me, afraid
I will reject its warmth; I am smaller than imagined,
surrounded by much taller things, like the wheat
that escaped my burden; what is life without the
pleasantries of greatness, an existence known
solely to one; it is hollow, relying on external
influences, to fill it, to comfort it, to make it whole;
yet, so many, as I, oppress such fields of beauty,
of whom don’t have the hands to hold us up; and
the ground, cold and damp, reminds the fallen, the
defeated, we are warmer still; where is my rabbit
hole, my heart is heavier than my flesh can bare
and needs to fall deeper than what I can offer, it’s
weight, like I to this bed of strangled wheat, takes my
air, my hope, to stand tall once again.

                                                            Jaymes Ian Woode


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