“The ancient customs candidly forbid

  That I, enrobed, should walk the windrow rows.”

  “And so they do, but for a dog amid

  The foxes, I should judge that as the crows

  At will fly on our crops, for you as those.”

  “So thoughtlessly you speak, yet in your heart

  I know you do not see me set apart.”

  The drying harvest formed dim corridors

  Rokhem by name, by sight tendrilous hooks

  Of hazel hues and iron-scented spores

  Though grim, strangely inviting in its looks

  Rokhem fed all the scavengers and rooks

  Well cultivated, wealth beyond all want

  But growing ever pallid, weak, and gaunt

  “My father said this row was mine to cut

  But how could I have done this in a day?”

  The two trekked on along a narrow rut

  Each stride struck Khazemil with new dismay

  Which Merrasir did nothing to allay

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  His eyes were on the sheaves, his mind the past

  Dead leaves and secrets epoch-overcast

  “I fear the scent of blood on fresh-cut grain!

  Diminished to a phantom thought in bread

  But overbearing here, laid on the plain.”

  “Oh Khazemil, there is much worse to dread!

  We must return at once and go to bed.

  Tomorrow you shall work to help our cause,

  While I defile rokhem with prying paws.”

  A lightning strike of shock ran through the fox

  Beyond what pain he suffered not to sleep

  So Merrasir stayed back to gather stalks

  His friend in fleeing trying not to weep

  Another wall destroyed around the keep

  “The vision! Oh, the first thought in my head

  Was him, a scythe, and luminescent red!”

  As Khazemil far faster than before

  Wove through the nighttime vapors of the street

  A candle lit, a motion at the door

  Again in darkness utterly complete

  Again a thudding, distant, dire beat

  Embraced by melting shadows on his frame

  Pursued by no-one calling out his name

  A pinpoint light, a vague electric hum

  One flicker, just enough to lose its trust

  The shapes without it, what would they become?

  The spaces most concerning, without dust

  The distance disconcerting, stifled rust

  “Return, and lose my life again to dreams?

  Each moment one more blade against the seams.”