Fields of Wheat

Fields of wheat

Bread and butter on our knees

Pretty soon, apart from the love we give and get back from our families

Nothing will be free

This isn't about me

It's about the avenues

Crescents, streets and lanes we've not been to

Windows we've not peeked through

Scuppered lives way out of sight

It isn't always about you

Fields of wheat

Fast forgetting basic needs

Becoming selfish through our scrolling thumbs

Dismissive, scared, uncomfortably numb

Depressive reveries

This bit is about me

Because I'm culpable, you see

In a bubble crying into food I bought so I could fill my face

Not because of need

What a fucking waste of wheat

Fields of wheat

Are you ready to be reaped?

Are you ready for the pinch you'll feel in fractured homes that will not heal?

Oh please believe

This isn't about me