An Ode to a Wheat Grain
 

An Ode to a Wheat Grain

Why can't the grains of wheat just be thrown into the mill?
They're sheep, as the shephard cries wolf, his actions just fall so ill.
The sand on the bank so dry and barren, covers the ground in rage.
Watery tides throw over, wettening the sand, it forms to suit its cage.
Mountain rocks so jagged, making life amongst, none exist.
But snow falls, plows, said rocks can't see through mist.
Clouds up high absord the waste, running waste of earth cracks.
Rains down, floods the ground, flooding, dripping into empty shacks.
Drips drop down, covers earth soil, wettening skin and bone.
Soil now so muddy, just runs, and runs with where it's shown.
Fields of corn and vegetation, covered with now muddy waste.
Stamps any sign of life, kills, and withers it 'till no taste.
Full fields of wheat and grain, now wiltered to black and brown.
The farmer looks out with glazey eyes, and shows just only a frown.
Looks up to the cloudy sky, closed eyes, clothes needing ties.
Falls down to his knees, hands on the ground, everything, just dies.
This watery waste residue, only flowing to where it's told.
Knows not what it does, ignorance begets only the yearning for fools gold.
Leaves stims break, falling down from the tree tops.
Hitting the ground, brown, only showing that life always stops.
The field of grain, not growing older, wheat doesn't want to be alive.
It only knows, that if it grows, its life wouldn't bear to thrive.