Harvester of sorrow plows through me,
reaps my joy.

Seeder of misery plants its progeny,
progenitor of my anguish my pain.

Devoid,
desolation,
breeding ground
for the psyche's dilapidation.

But hold your scythe grim reaper,
for my soul is not your reward.
Your harvester seizes and breaks without pain for lubricant;
your seeder chokes when you push too far.
And I'll smother you
with my pounding heart.