Wasting Away


There is a sickness in the field
A festering plague amongst the crops
This harvest will have no bounty to yield
But a makeshift graveyard strewn with hope's corpses

There is a stillness in the air
Profound emptiness that never stops
As if trying to leave no peace or care
For the skeletons of what once had borne fruit

Plains of rot are now decaying
Marked still by plague to their very core
Flowers have died, wilted petals swaying
A macabre dance to the tune of the wind's dirge

The fading seeds fall to the soil
Putrid ground that will grow life no more
Land that stays tainted no matter the toil
Affected, afflicted, decaying, and dead

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