A writer’s harvest
Dead they lie ‘neath your leaden feet
Strewn o’er Time by a careless hand
Once vessels of treasure replete,
Now maggot-filled shells on barren land.
No wish how strong can bring them back,
No sorrowful desiring
Can raise to light those in the dark
Hold off heavy suspiring.
But show your hand, say what you see
Five glorious serfs awaiting
Each one a stalwart devotee
Eager to do your bidding.
Had you but called them in the night
To pluck the choice fruit of your mind
And offer for some soul’s delight
As rich a feast as he might find.
Instead your workers listless dragged
As years of harvest fell to rot
While you the writer proudly bragged
Of some fabulous unwritten plot.