The Harvester’s Hymn

The Harvester’s Hymn

Fields of rust and roots of bone,
Crows that chant in monotone,
Scarecrow grins with hollow eyes,
Guarding secrets where death lies.

Pumpkins rot with twisted veins,
Spilling shadows through the grains,
Cornstalks bend and whisper low,
Of the Harvester who reaps the woe.

Cut the flesh and grind the soul,
Harvest nightmares, make them whole,
In the furrows where shadows creep,
The Harvester comes when you fall asleep.

Hay bales weep with rotted straw,
Roots entwine through shattered jaw,
Bleeding earth where worms entwine,
Veins of soil that choke the vine.

Hands of burlap pull the dead,
String them high in webs of dread,
Cursed to watch with sightless stare,
While the Harvester hums through poisoned air.

Sing the hymn of soil and bone,
Where screams are sown and terror’s grown,
Rusty sickle, cursed to reap,
Dreams that die while shadows seep.

Cut the flesh and grind the soul,
Harvest nightmares, make them whole,
In the furrows where shadows creep,
The Harvester comes when you fall asleep.

Morning breaks with blood-red light,
Fields now bare of hope and fright,
But in the barn, where darkness hums,
The Harvester waits till twilight comes.