The Precise Word is the platform where I occasionally post my works, ranging from poems, stories to articles on everyday issues.
A scythe into my hand to sow
the falling stars which turn sour;
As I stand and bow,
the last star tramped me for an hour;
I then begin to behold a new starless sky,
Alone, I question the harvest,
Alone and with no one to vie
to continue the quest.
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