HARVEST
BY CHRIS LEWIS
The harvest is upon the land.
Whispers from the shadows
have manifested their malevolent form.
Dizziness and nausea envelope me,
I spin (in my heart and mind)
with confusion and pain:
God?
Universe?
Curiosity of death — yearning
to live.
Why and who pushes and pulls
these string of my soul?
Time slows as I return to numbness.
This prerequisite to the Fall.
The only true hurt.
The hurt.
The hurt
to the ones I love,
the ones I left.
Again, they suffer from the shade
cast my ignorant creation.
Maybe one day there will come stillness
Maybe one day these walls
will crumble
away. | CL
ORIGINALLY FROM SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, CHRIS LEWIS IS OF IRISH AND UKRAINIAN DECENT. HE LOVES AND APPRECIATES THE ART, BEAUTY, AND UTILITY OF WRITING. CHRIS IS THE CARETAKER FOR A ROSE GARDEN AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY, AND AN ENTHUSIASTIC MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP.
