if there is no harvest, on what will you feast
but the rotting black corpse of all that's deceased

nature had planted its seeds and prepared
and waited on you to then grow what was there

bodies amassed in the fields, spread afar
but nobody was who they'd said that they are

they toiled and played while wasting their time
and none of them paid to the crops any mind

ripe in their ways and the choices they'd made
everyone thought they'd be welcoming grain

but Fall came around and revealed something else
that the only things grown were personal hells