The summer’s burned my hopes away.
We just don’t get along —
I planted hope just yesterday,
But that’s where I went wrong.
The wheat is burning in the field,
It’s yellow with frustration —
Intention, though, does not make yield,
Nor wish, precipitation.
The sun is cruel, the days they mock,
There really is no saying
Just what I take when I take stock
In all of this
Decaying
