The Wheat Field

Story by Caitlin Van Horn
November 19, 2014

Upon the golden shoots we rise, like gossamer creeping o'er the gate.

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Story by Caitlin Van Horn
November 19, 2014

Upon the golden shoots we rise, like gossamer creeping o'er the gate.

Screen-Shot-2015-10-02-at-9.22.28-PM.jpg
 
 

Upon the golden shoots we rise, like gossamer creeping o'er the gate - Unfettered by our time's demise, its sunrise we anticipate - Through the chaff we kick our heels, atrophy threatening our thighs - From the lungs our breath does steal the pleasure that we sigh - We bury down the tawny trails, tangled in our muse's hair - Grieving as her sample pales, her flaxen arms around us bare - She feigns us with her puppetry, her tether around our limbs - Sweaty palms opened to her weave, yellow pools in which we swim - Sunlight flames along the sod, its kiss upon each blade - A beacon of fair golden rod, a fiery serenade - On the bed of grain and heap, the splendor on which we lie - For now our vigil is to keep our watch upon the sky - We fawn upon this golden hour, its echoes we prolong - Never will be field nor flower to compare this morning's song. When we've left our amber waves I pray that you will fly - And meet me in the place we save, the wheat field, our Versailles.

 
 
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