Reaping is Done

My madam picks her silver spoon, and measures out a soupçon of dust. And my madam tears the checkerboard asunder, then crawls under and sleeps in a field of rye. So my madam makes a pillow of the spade, and takes the willow for shade to dream a dream of flying away.

But madam, will you say goodbye, wont you let me sing a lullaby and kiss the lonely gaze. Oh, but she has demons to fight and she cant hear me seranade and while she raises her hell tonight, I pick up my hat and leave the masquerade.

Now as I walk down the primrose path of my making, and although that heart is surely breaking, I think I shall soon forget.



And she says
The reaping is done
And knots come undone
Someone tell me if
It is morning yet...