In the bitter spring we do not sleep.
The Ides of March unforgiving, reap
silences, times that keep
souls that inconsolably weep,
baby birds refuse the seed,
winter comes, four months deep.
Roots have shriveled buried deep,
corpses rot although they sleep,
they are the dirt for new seed,
this is the fruit the farmer daren't reap.
Childhoods where we could not weep,
fade to promises we could not keep.
Why do ravens turn from the towers, that keep
the king buried six feet deep.
The villagers do not weep,
they too have fallen to sleep
The Devil’s hand was there to reap
death’s long forgotten seed.
God has planted one mustard seed
the only thing there was to keep,
because there is no reward to reap.
The mortician dug in his pockets deep,
all his clients are fast a sleep,
he sits in his chair and refuses to weep.
His wife sits in a rocking chair to weep.
She is lacking of seed,
knowing that she will be next to sleep.
A single child she could not keep,
The needles puncture, puncture deep,
for it was his child that she could not reap.
Winter winds have come to reap
the tears that some have refused to weep
in a crystalline jar buried deep
like some vengeful seed,
the secret that the grounds keep,
in the place where creatures refuse to sleep.
In the lack of sleep, it is then we reap
a safer place we then keep, we weep
the seed lies within our hearts, no longer buried deep.