Wheatfield
by Sarah Walters
Upon the wheatfield I stand
with my back facing the rising sun.
Dark blues bleed into the morning sky
while warm hues swim in my own dying eyes.
Black dots litter the open yellow fields.
Yellow lines swarm the black heavens.
Flight, what an alluring addiction;
something ached by the mundane
and mundane for the birds,
but I will fly with these black beasts
that pierce the bare atmosphere.
When I pierce my own skin with
the cold lead hanging next to my hip,
I will soar into the morning with my brethren
thrashing their obsidian feathers next
to my throbbing head and still heart.
As I lead the killer next to my temple
everything stops - the whispering winds,
the fluttering of feathers, the scratching
of straw rubbing my legs raw, and my mind.
My mind stopped wondering,
my heart stopped beating,
my body started twitching violently
as I pulled the strong trigger against
my soft skin, and I left a low whimper
as the black crowes littered the sky
like the night stars again.
with my back facing the rising sun.
Dark blues bleed into the morning sky
while warm hues swim in my own dying eyes.
Black dots litter the open yellow fields.
Yellow lines swarm the black heavens.
Flight, what an alluring addiction;
something ached by the mundane
and mundane for the birds,
but I will fly with these black beasts
that pierce the bare atmosphere.
When I pierce my own skin with
the cold lead hanging next to my hip,
I will soar into the morning with my brethren
thrashing their obsidian feathers next
to my throbbing head and still heart.
As I lead the killer next to my temple
everything stops - the whispering winds,
the fluttering of feathers, the scratching
of straw rubbing my legs raw, and my mind.
My mind stopped wondering,
my heart stopped beating,
my body started twitching violently
as I pulled the strong trigger against
my soft skin, and I left a low whimper
as the black crowes littered the sky
like the night stars again.