Poetry: "Horticulture"

The rusty dusk drifts like dreams
where dusty husks shift like streams
hiding all the lonely lost,
wandering with coin-eyes crossed
crying to triads in the fields,
trying to clutch their fallen shields,
all a silent broken mass, testament to eras past
til autumn dawn lights reapers' bulks
time ticked down, each turns to mulch
feeding life not his own, now to birth the newly sown