i feel the tophet against my hands like wheat; wash this blood between the ilk of the stars for i’ve done alone, I echo to the dream for god I’ve craved I am not, alone; and the stars hang to death’s crib, the moon has not left; paralyze, the womb I’ve had no son or daughter of mine; I gleam, this candle, this mouth and eye of lord to lord—a sheath of insanity in the dark i, alone, foretell, but do not look at me under the suicided moon and rocks at shore; i am not the ghost in the absence of blood—but the amputations from war; given dark fruits, bones abort into the ground, we turn to ephemeral wombs, these dead are our own. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a poem about or with “wheat” and its possible variations.
I had Macbeth in mind for this, particularly Lady Macbeth for some reason. Don’t ask me why I thought of this with wheat. I guess I cheated with the prompt, yet again.