The Farmer

Be not afraid dear little one.
Sweet dreams befouled by fright
To fall asleep your soul to reap
This cold and loathsome night

For I shall take you, hold your hand,
Release you from your pain.
By death’s design I’ve come to you,
For death has no refrain.

Cleanse your mind of forlorn times;
Accept the gift I give.
Nighttime’s draped its sullen sheets
There’s no time left to live.

So, fear me not, since fear won’t do.
Give credence not to fright.
I’m just a farmer; my crop is souls.
I’ll harvest yours tonight.