A rusty old
Scythe lying discarded
In a corner
In an old barn.
Its handles worn
Smooth by calloused
Hands which have
Long since departed
From this world.
The meadows it once
Mowed are now
Left fallow.
No one bothers with
The old scythe with
A history all its own.
Its work and memory
Like most things
Have come to an
Abrupt end and now, it,
Like the barn housing
It are slowly deteriorating
Back to nothing.
Once its moist blade
Was wiped with grass
On a fine summer's day
And sweat was wiped
From a proud hope
Filled brow while in use.
Now the wind moans
Through the meadow
It once mowed and
Younger souls hold
Dying memories of
What once was.   Submitted By: NULL