A prisoner of war straddled by the stalks,
by these amber waves of grain,
by this land void of keys and full of too many locks,
ravaged by the fury of her past campaign.
Home is a lonely place she has never known
yet she crawls on, undaunted by the knives
that pierce her skin and she forgets she is alone,
alone amidst plants that bear death more than they do lives.
Color is a luxury few can afford,
but pink flows from her arms for free,
the others had only red that poured,
seeping into cracks like tracing trees
but in between the hurt the pain the strife
the sea of grain has never shined so bright.
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