It’s a dead man’s farm that flows row after row
A strange sick decaying crop that does not grow
But spouts stone statues and musty monuments
Digging dirt of different quantities and qualities
Slightly stiff and dark to light brown ground under
Layers of soft white light reflecting wet snow
They rip the frozen ground apart just for me
Tentatively at first then with a fiercer force
Deeper and deeper into the well of hell
The dark chamber which carries my broken shell
Those plots of stagnant crops postponing their rot
Worms inching and struggling but never piercing
Never startled nor fearing the truth that is searing
I am a planted seed never meant to grow
Potential never allowed to flow and show
Life as the cycling gift it truly is
The farm expands men multiplied by women
Children and elderly corpses cut too closely
No corn, milk, eggs, beans, bacon, wheat, or honey
Just lanes of dead men farming for nothingness