Woven straw of string tied doll

hanging from a farmers post,

pin-pricked, spat on, cursed by all,

once a life, now more a Ghost

 

Fumbling’s of the foulest feast,

Whispered threats to Promise Keep.

These Woods belie a Darker Beast

And far to go before you sleep.

 

Touch the corn to feel the Pain

the Hearts that Beat here share no Tongue,

Though they’ll recall from whence you came

to tell it all, but just for fun

 

You are of Flesh and not the Grain

your Harvest spoiled was Salted Tears,

The Scythe that Swept will Cut again

that None be spared their Childhood Fears