Easy be this country road
Many a face and hand to hold
Yet harder be the golden trail
Home to more than the common quail
And here I stand frail as petals
Lying in the soil mud puddles
Standing in talent’s garden
As the farmer leaves his gate open
Big empty cornfield, already raised
Potential taken by potential unfazed
Reaper stands at the front porch
Awaiting the corn to approach
Yet healthy melons and squash
Glady roaming among the hogwash
Dodging the old road towards death
And the gardens puddles of Lethe
Even when deprived of their years
Began to rise did the ears
To watch the squash roll past
To reminisce of dream’s past
Old fertile kernels gifted of substance
Never knew of their true purpose
And lifted their lives, from the waste
From the puddles of Lethe with haste