The Farmer

By Wayne Thoden

Be not afraid dear little one.

Sweet dreams befouled by fright

To fall asleep your soul to reap

This cold and loathsome night

For I shall take you, hold your hand,

Release you from your pain.

By death’s design I’ve come to you,

For death has no refrain.

Cleanse your mind of forlorn times;

Accept the gift I give.

Nighttime’s draped its sullen sheets

There’s no time left to live.

So, fear me not, since fear won’t do.

Give credence not to fright.

I’m just a farmer; my crop is souls.

I’ll harvest yours tonight.