Harvest of Truths

Truths faced, renew.

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He reaps at dusk

In October’s field

Gathers not wheat

But the murmurs

Of fallen leaves. 

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In a basket

Of bones and woes

He puts broken vows,

Truths 

Memories–

Reaped Without thought.

For decades.

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On Hallowed Eve

A muted whisper, 

Soft,

Thought long placed deep

The soil. 

But the grown corn

Have ears that hear

And minds

To recall.

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The reaper halts. 

Turns. 

A face.

Smiling.

Yet pained.

With guilt

In looking glass.

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He strides

Leaves the field

Basket empty

Skeletal Soul–

Self–

Heart–

Renewed.

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.