I'm going to try to turn this poem into a bit of an art piece, with war imagery and protest pictures. I'm going to use it to campaign for RESPECT, and may try to get it into the local press.... The Reaper's Harvest With blinkered eyes I cast my gaze, Across a field sown with uttered lies; Watered with the tears of an innocence lost To the caterpillar tracks that heave the plough Of obscured intentions, beneath the mourning haze. My blood turns black! Once red, it seeps now into the sands Of empires long since passed To time’s embrace, where I, face down, now follow. New empires rise above me, My blood is black, crude and sold; A bitter liquor, sweetened by soft words Of freedom’s fallacy for which I fought. Oil-seed war, a field sown, A harvest reaped, my body strewn… The world turns black.