The Reaper's Basket
A Dark Poem From The Mind of Matthew Leo
My thoughts, limp as
The sorrowed branches
Of inexperience, where
Can they take me but
Southward, beyond hope,
Beyond sanity.
This is my dominion,
Where my visions
Procreate to nightmares,
And my every sigh
Breathes life into demons
Of agony, however unwelcome.
And those branches bear
Only the fruit of uncertainty,
Guarded by Agonies who
Battle not to yield
The next harvest of security.
Yet the season is done.
And I’m soon to gather
The fruits of my labor
And sell them, for a price.
And may the highest bidder
Remain shackled by indecision
Until next season’s bounty.
© 2020 Matthew Leo
About the Creator
Matthew Leo
Matthew Leo is an Amazon self-published author of "Zombies Don't Ride Motorcycles". I have written over 200 poems, and written numerous articles. If you enjoyed any article please let me know with a heart & for more content please tip.
Keep reading
More stories from Matthew Leo and writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson5 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.