The Wind that blows the barley
Sinking to its knees in the gale
The barley meekly bows to the ground
Its attempts at liberation have failed
For the squall that sweeps is profound
With this very depiction in his head
Of the barley, purely a servant to the breeze
The memory of his father shot dead
His disposition abruptly begins to freeze
As he falls to his knees and grieves
Among the fallen leafs
Six years ago this very day
His life was unexpectedly malformed
On the wooden floor his father lay
At the beginning of the storm
The gusto clawed at the windows
As time froze, in his blood soaked clothes
The sound of his final breath
Smothered by crows
Sixteen years old, he stands alone
An outsider to this milieu
They will pay for the seeds they have sown
On the night the wind blew
He charged in to the house, unconfined a shout
And blew out, the occupants in the building
He unveiled his mask with a grin, and a laugh
Echoing from wall to wall
For he had got his revenge at last
In a blood-filled brutal maul
The bomb had been blown
And his targets were dead or dying
All that was heard was a piteous moan
And the far-flung din of a baby crying
His vengeance had been sweet, he cherished this night
In his soul, there was a full flung party
As he stood over the furrowed men, like
The wind that blows the barley
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Originally Posted by Jonathon
