BARLEY WAVES
Moved past unending fields of grain
lonely farmhouses
collapsing slowly
and constantly in the wind
bending the heavy heads
of harvest barley.
Knocked on doors silent and musty
holding some muted history
behind
the brambles
and within this vacancy
whispers sub-audible
"I loved here."
"I died here."
Just the wind
Only the waves of barley.
Keep moving.
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