Come here,
young traveller…
I harvest the pain,
from the scattered brains
to the shattered hearts
across the wheat fields.

My soul will untangle
the poison vines.
Though thorns
will cut my arms,
I bled many more before—
I’ll bleed for you.

You carry so many scars,
to still believe you’re beautiful,
love—
Oh child, young child,
who did this to you?

Knives twist,
gutting your insides,
strung from chest to thighs.
Running like prey,
hearts beating a million drums,
lost for breath—

Strings of stress
tied to the heart—
A manipulated puppet
played with by crooked hands
and conjured voices,
each sharper than
my harvesting scythe.
Tangled in a wild dance
for far too long…

I hear the hollow
whispering beyond
Blood Orange Valley.
Here, young traveller,
give me your hand.
Let me be the one—
stabbed through the heart,
covered in a million wounds,
left tangled in
The Hanging Tree—
You need rest now.
Be free,
young traveller.