Ships coming down
Straits of bone
To the bottom hole
Last to see
First to go

Hallowed fields of gold
Brushing gently
Upon little toes
Running to hearth and home
Earth grown

Empty sounds
Go unnoticed
In this field of brown
Ghosts roam around
Knowing not life

Like a winged fowl
Piercing gaze
And hunter's scowl
The reaper comes down
To mazed fields

Graced by dark and light
The fields change
While shadows roam by
Seeking peace in dualities
Opposite extremes

Scythe in hand, harvest is swift
The shadows gaze with uncertainty
Of the unseen
And all within intuition's grasp
Of the threshing fields

Shadows move in sun and moon
Seeking
Fields of gold,
An end to rough terrain,
Answers to the pain