The Year of The Sickle, poem by Win Cadman at
Srihari Surya Vamsi Batchala

The Year of The Sickle

The Year of The Sickle

written by: Win Cadman


I found a sickle gleaming bright
in Blue Bird’s beak in defiant flight.
It dropped her, I outstretched my hand
to light up dark December land.

The handle still felt sticky and warm
as I clasped my hand around her form.
Her blade an arc of shining grace
my forlorn face reflected from.

I made soft sheath from my darker hide
the blood still trickling down my side.
E’er now and then I took her out to stare
in the gleam I shamelessly confide.

The year trailed on with my sickle close
the sheath broke down in sad morose.
The blade at times cut far too deep
the handle tho’ poetic prose.

December came ’round once again
my sickle still my soul’s sole friend.
Her sharp edge now bore a rusty spell
it cuts through all I was and am.

A sickle is but a crescent moon
its blade to sever those who swoon.
The handle once so sticky and warm
now fits into the hand of doom.

I filled a bath, stripped to the bare
my face forlorn from the water stares.
Immersed we lay, two friends of fate
considering the year that was not fair.

My blood grew thin, the blade grew warm
to culminate this perfect storm.
One last reflection upon this year
of good and bad in the early dawn.

Rose-tinged the water, then darker red
the blade marked its incision ahead
I dropped it as the Blue Bird did
the light fades fast…December’s dead.

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