I’m not dreaming this sense of allegory

I’m not imagining this sense of melancholy

dark robed figures swing scimitars

in grain filled fields of wheat and oats

death is in the harvest

bloated bodies line the streets

no cart, no crier, no relief

i can’t make up the raging anarchy

I can’t unsee the sight of destiny

if this should be when we bid each other adieu

recollect the times I tried to put my arms around you

forget the times my temper flew

in passions flames I will collect your ashes

but there’s not enough to bury beneath the tree of life

good bye my darlings

and good night