Eventually everything blows over, the wheat get’s chopped up and loose feathers ride the breeze. The sturdy crop that was used as a playground for newborn, barnyard buddies and cute, cuddly little couples trying to find the perfect place to see the clouds. The crop used to fill stomachs and empty pockets, but only a little. The beautiful wheat fields that would sway from side to side as if almost dancing to the miracle of wind itself. The cooling agent in such heat and treacherous downpours. From sunset to sundown and to a glorious, warm color coated masterpiece of sunset once again when the clocked relined with the morning aid. These memories, this amazing place to wander free and hidden, was now a meer sanctuary of tombstones. Where the breeze may have skimmed these fields and lifted kindred spirits, it also took a blade to others that were chopped, scarred, and ravaged until nothing was left. A graveyard of tortured souls, only visited again in the spring to move the bodies if not to delay the cost of a refill. Soon new seeds planted, newborns weeded and watered and a city was built all over again. Old bodies restless beneath, feeding the above hauntings bound in chains. A cycle of pain and rebirth and pain, memories never forgotten and full stomaches never satisfied. This was a world we never speak of.