By Arcassin Burnham

Let the rain come down
Cleansing my the pureness of me,
Vines grow from the tips of my toes,
I shall write a fine will,
In respects to the old me,
Painting the town bright green instead
Of red,
Wishing someone would fill my brain with lead,
Accustomed to the pain married to the hate,
Attracted to the lust,
Woken up by the creation,
In hopes of a better nation,
I put beside my stupid obsessive jealousy
For rice and treats,
Treat me to a cold piece of steak,
Please!
Be easy,
Only trying to check on my feet,
To see if the vines went away,
They won't fade like every bad situation I've had,
Throwing lots of shade,
I'm in the ground filled with mistakes,
I paid the way for things that I can relate.

I once plowed a field new
In proper time for rain and dew
I planted it in fertile loam
A soft heart that was my own

I planted seed, and it was Thine
I will wait for Harvest Time

The sun, it came up with each dawn
And those seeds grew up so strong
The rain, it came to quench the soil
So the seedlings wouldn't spoil

Chorus

We nourished wheat,
plucked up the weeds
For we'd many mouths to feed
A plentiful crop, t'was lush and green
The greatest harvest ever seen!

Chorus

When the time was ripe to reap
We worked so hard we could not sleep
We set about to thresh our wares
Separating wheat from tares

Chorus

Threshing done, we ground our grain
In great hardship, blinding pain
But in the end, it can be said
That 8 billion souls were fed!

Chorus

Tell me, friend, how grows your field?
When it's reaped, what will it yield?
Will it be good wheat or briars
To be thrown into the fires?

Chorus


SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/17/2006
Rewritten 9/15/2015

("Lord, bless this holy ground")

In the morning all the sunflowers turned their heads to the east.

("Where ancient spirits meet")

They swayed on the gentle wind like tired passengers, their shadows lied on the ground.

(" 'Round the old harvesters")

Corn,pumpkin and potato  
harvested all day long, till the sun hides behind the hills.

("With a ribbon to tie our souls")

Now the fields are empty and the rusty sickle is hung on the wall.

("And to bind love in our hearts")

*But the melody goes on and on.
-The warm harvest song from my childhood is still ringing in my ears at night.

Don't get too confident
Somebody will make you tumble off to the side
It's just how this ride
Of the wave and momentum goes
You have to embrace it
Or it will devastate anything you thought you had
Don't question it
Just imagine yourself as the best you can be at the moment
Ignore the other lights
Just ingest and harvest the energy you have
To illuminate the rest of the space
And become a better version of a flawed creation
Improve your relations
With the neighbors
They might be a good reason your future
Improves
Don't try to disprove
Me
You know if you keep comparing
You will be staring
At only the dirtiest pair of eyes
And the sane humans can only handle the most devious of eyes for only so long.
Add your own theme
But do not fall for the scheme
That tries to entrench itself within everyone.
You might find yourself feeling like a trillion
Or a praised pavilion
But one day you will be intimidated to such a point that you'd question your worth with the very bottom layers of the dirt
My one condensed way of shortening this piece
Don't.

Life is all about mentality and choices.

Each word is a potent seed,
sow it with such loving care,
these seeds, in fertile fields
lie in wait patiently to sprout
and to  ensure a golden harvest

Death
is
subjective.

Harvests
of
thought
which
stir the
midnight
consolations
churn
and
turn
empty
capacities.



Emotions
which
awaken
yet
cease
all
in
the
space
of
30
spent
seconds,
little
slaughter.


Equinoxes
sprung
and
autumnal
spines
break
flooding
in
a whispered
annihilation.

Expiration
morphs
wasteland
into
sentience
as
Darkness
of
a post
apocalypse
draws
and
sketches
on
a
spent
sheet of
paper.

She says she’s moving.
                                      I feel sick and I’m reminded
of how my brother outgrew my hand me downs.
I still haven’t washed the tea cups since the last time
                       she was here
                                              and now she’s leaving.

Contrary to my feelings,
being outgrown can be something
overgrown.
When was the last time
I complained about
my garden being overgrown?    

She says she’s moving.
                                      I feel relief and I’m reminded
of my brother rooting through the three foot dill weeds
and coming out with potatoes, squash, and the seasons last
                             starved tomatoes;
                                                       ­   I’m ready for the new season.

Spare no lament for the maple leaves
     that hail their impending fall
with blazing gold and scarlet concerts
     bright as Christmas brass in marble halls.

How bold their radiant hymns resound -
     mute to the sweatered ones below
whose treble scraping rakes -
     raise smoldering pyres of the fallen.

Steamy plumes from cocoa mugs
     blend with burning oak and maple wisps
as rakers chant their own sweet airs,
     “The colors surprised this year,
didn’t think we’d had the rain.”

So spare no lament for the maple leaves
     whose jubilant anthems,
raised beneath the harvest moon,
     herald their fall with rainbow alleluias.

*November, 2006