The cut

I want you and me to take a stand.

I want us to stand up straight,
to look behind,
and not see a thing.

A field
of what used to be wheat,
what used to be dreams,
now gone, cut.
Along the side of the road,
rests the scythe.

I want us to look at the plain field,
I want us to only see that the shadows are gone,
that we made right of what was wrong,
before all that we made turned to waste.

I want us to forget the taste
of dead days,
I want us to be aware of Sun’s rays,
not let them burn us down.

I want us to take a stand,
stand up straight,
make our own cuts.

In our hands,
happily rests the scythe