a cascade of bullets fly
as holes are drilled in those of few
an infestation in the field of rye
somehow I wish I knew

that the golden stalks sway misshapen
and the cry of voices wilts askew
a love affair with streaking ravens
picking at those whose blood runs blue

the eery yawn, I shield myself
and reach out for those nimble fingers
the inky spell, wading through stress of oneself
as beautiful we are, we remain as sinners