"Trial by Harvest"
Harvest moon hangs in the sky.
Whetstone screams through the night.
For reaping time is nigh.
Stars wink out, one by one.
Hiding their face,
'Til the atrocity is done.
Dark figure from door emerges.
Slowly to the fields he lurches,
Cold, ethereal scythe in hand.
Weapon with strange, evil life,
Thirsty, razor fiend.
Blood is its demand.
Growing zealous, pulsing red.
Soon the blade,
Shall be fed.
The hour now upon us,
Cloaked one swings thirsty blade,
With lithe movements venomous.
He lashes at the weak of root,
And they fall beneath the lathe.
Those with constitution fickle,
Receive death by demonic sickle.
Silent, somber,
Dance of whirling razor.
With such un-holy grace,
Harvester leads his greedy partner,
A mirthless grin upon his face.
Flame orange moon basks all in its glow,
Exposing the macabre show below.
The night is painted with mutilation,
And it's only just begun.
Blood-thirsty blade does not slow.
In its wake, death will grow.
Somber still, but silence gone.
Lamenting wails,
Of the severed
Receive mercy from none.
Spearing, spinning, slashing, shearing
Wraith approaches,
And the feeble shake,
Sensing that their end is nearing.
On the ground,
The dying writhe,
Twist, and seize.
Clawing at their frail lives,
That slip away with ease.
And as suddenly as it began,
The gruesome dance is done.
Vile thirst of the blade,
Is slaked once again.
As the harvester skulks away,
The surviving long for the light of day.
They grow their roots, ever stronger.
The night stretches on, ever longer.
On the fields of life,
We stand as crops.
Tribulation wields
a scythe named Strife.
And when its blood-lust manifest,
Will you be cut down, with the rest?
----------------------------------------------------------
so watcha think?
Harvest moon hangs in the sky.
Whetstone screams through the night.
For reaping time is nigh.
Stars wink out, one by one.
Hiding their face,
'Til the atrocity is done.
Dark figure from door emerges.
Slowly to the fields he lurches,
Cold, ethereal scythe in hand.
Weapon with strange, evil life,
Thirsty, razor fiend.
Blood is its demand.
Growing zealous, pulsing red.
Soon the blade,
Shall be fed.
The hour now upon us,
Cloaked one swings thirsty blade,
With lithe movements venomous.
He lashes at the weak of root,
And they fall beneath the lathe.
Those with constitution fickle,
Receive death by demonic sickle.
Silent, somber,
Dance of whirling razor.
With such un-holy grace,
Harvester leads his greedy partner,
A mirthless grin upon his face.
Flame orange moon basks all in its glow,
Exposing the macabre show below.
The night is painted with mutilation,
And it's only just begun.
Blood-thirsty blade does not slow.
In its wake, death will grow.
Somber still, but silence gone.
Lamenting wails,
Of the severed
Receive mercy from none.
Spearing, spinning, slashing, shearing
Wraith approaches,
And the feeble shake,
Sensing that their end is nearing.
On the ground,
The dying writhe,
Twist, and seize.
Clawing at their frail lives,
That slip away with ease.
And as suddenly as it began,
The gruesome dance is done.
Vile thirst of the blade,
Is slaked once again.
As the harvester skulks away,
The surviving long for the light of day.
They grow their roots, ever stronger.
The night stretches on, ever longer.
On the fields of life,
We stand as crops.
Tribulation wields
a scythe named Strife.
And when its blood-lust manifest,
Will you be cut down, with the rest?
----------------------------------------------------------
so watcha think?