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