The Harvest

He is but a product.
A commodity created by the Majesty of Night.
An Enigmatic Darkness so Extrinsic that it protrudes inwards,
Into every ambitious Soul that treads upon It's existence-
At the time of Dusk's corruption of the Sky,
He vulnerably attacks it with trembling eyes,
all while it reflects eternity thriving through him.
The Pores of Darkness begin to cling onto the very skin that gives it Purpose-
Diminishing the mystery of it's silence..
An aloof memory fades into the void-
And the silent synchronicity makes Discovering some semblance of individuality futile.
He is one with IT.

He is one with THEM.

They often dwindle and twist his sheepish hair when it lunges lustfully at them,
As if they were Reaping through the Kinky Nature of His thoughts- And sowing resolve..
Which they eloquently bled during those endless hours of Man's Monstrosities.

After years of nurturing, feeding, Loving
He has become the harvest of Slave Labor-
His Mind bustles with Enlightenment In the Wind.
Flowing,
Teetering on the divinity that is a summer breeze..
Flying unabashedly wherever the Clouds would take them-
whether it be to a page, the rippling void or
to the street corner of a forgotten minority,
Reality must embrace it.
Simply Drifting past him,
may lead to one sensationalizing the Life of his Breath Brushing Past all Flesh Boundaries-
Seeping through them- Gently molesting, And resting near the Cage of Weary Hearts-
Uncertainty arises-
Pulse Quickens.
And Suddenly,
A Breath of Meaning corrodes every organ littered with shame,
And every Bone collapsing under detachment-
And For a moment-
One dreams of allocating the Sweat soaked from 250 year old winds
and rationing them back to their owners.
One by one-
You'll hand them Radiant Memento Jars-
Steadfastly Glowing As long as The Universe expands..
And they will see Bubbly Glimpses of a past life.
Of A vast place they called Home.
Teeming with an archaic way of life that they can't remember.
And they will disdain you at first.
But at night,
The sanity of their Fingertips will caress it so.
Enthralling them...
Seducing them..
From scraping the floors for regurgitated food off Spanish Slave Ships
To Alliterating The Blackest of Spirits to the mystery of themselves.
The Jar will show them the way.
The Way to Carry On.
And you, the harvest..
Will have facilitated a feeling of hope.
For they would know that they reaped what they sowed.