The Fields of Rye.
The old time bastard never got it
lights shined but no one was home,
now lost in his own silent nights
the wind blows on an odyssey alone.
Tempered in the indifference of fire
that has yet to fall on the fields of rye,
he watches as the sunset looms red;
blood red as the moon begins to rise.
Out to the corner shelf he reached
but the book was long since gone,
then reflections faded into reasoning
that seemed to be wrong all along.
So out to the field he walked in silence
and watched as the others were taken away,
nothing was said for the tongue dried up
as the perpetrator came his way.
Then as he held out his hand to an old friend
that hand he had seen from a darkness that lends,
he knew that his blindness was that of his own
a prisoner of his own mind, slowly led by a friend.
Taken away to a heaven he knew from before
give to those in the days that were long forgotten,
it was never an apple that came from the tree;
but what was, was surely rotten.
If it ever was what it seems to be
then that's the life we have to share,
now lost in what was and what is to be
being free means we need to care.
Who was that old bastard anyway
as he moved alone throughout the field,
my friend, I am certain of this fact
because he brought back home a full yield.
A.o.R.
