Fields of grain can flow;

may they in barren lands?

Question you might sanity

until comes a gentle hand.


Scars and lashes do come

as we move inside this space.

Here upon this weird sphere

the sun does burn our face.


What was lush turns raw;

to ash and does make barren

those moments we hold dear

the sun does not spare them.


Here you can and will find

contortions of deceitful minds;

at least within the acidic burn

might the sun reveal the kind.


Some believe in reckoning,

but why would a God care?

I believe in a simple balance

of tranquility in the air.


That moves fields of grain,

though fire it may spread.

Yet sometimes what must live

must at first become dead.


How would we know warmth

without winter’s bitter touch?

How could we know wholeness

without knowing what can crush?

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