The Wheat Whispered

I once dreamt behind fluttering eyelids,

Standing over a vast field of golden wheat,

Caught in a light breeze,

The wheat spoke to me in the wind,

It was a croon, an utterance of a spirit,

One that had died many ages before,

The spirit spoke in a language I did not recognise,

Yet I understood perfectly when it told me,

About the gasping of a dying kingdom,

The disintegration of a vibrant essence,

That had thrived at one time,

Where plates had been covered in succulent green,

The colour of existence,

Before sentient beings stood with feet and toes,

The wheat swayed and rocked more harshly,

As a monster of machine approached,

It greedily devoured the wheat as it went,

And the spirit screamed to stop the machine,

from its vicious cycle of conscious life and death,

But the machine continued,

Making the trees beside the field burst into flames,

And the sky to turn a deathly grey,

A piercing shrill penetrated the sound of the dream,

It was the spirit that cried the field had become diseased,

From the monster of machine,

Battered from incessant greed,

A torment from the harvest of wheat,

“This will spell the end of it all,” it said,

“When the cycle has to stop and man falls.”

Then it said the plates would crumble to dust,

Where it would float in shattered pieces,

Surrounded by an alien atmosphere of liquid blue.

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