Shrouded


They’re following me,

like black vultures circling.

They’re shrouded in winter’s mist 

almost as dark as the shrouds

they wear to cover themselves,

to cloak themselves for their journey.

Shrouds like dusty abayas

once black, now

uniformly grey,

shapeless,

bloodless,

formless,

lifeless

grey.

Only their mouths still red

like vultures feasting

on death

mouths

stained by this final feast.

The feast of what was left

of the harvest.

And now there will be

nothing,

nothing any more.

Nothing.


https://www.orenaugmountainpublishing.com/p/the-harvest-reaping.html



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