Cyclical Crops

The harvest signifies less ingratiating appetites this season.
I fully realize potentially defficient nutrient consumption,
but be careful, thirst means sips from a flaw full flask.
This batch raised the red flag, and gasped because crop circles
prompt produce beckoning past the second kind of sight, like
belief and virtue but that geometry was only realized in death.
Deities often evoke piety but that does not mean we do not need to eat,
yet the seeds sauntered towards defeat in churlish reckoning
of the sacrimental staples yet the horses still need food in their stables.
Capable of transmundane, mundanity rooted itself to the ground
and now makes us consume its arching, magenta frown.
Farming for followers, undeniable normality, triumph in fedelity
understating sacrilege flagellation bastardizing and confounding -
but wait - icicles radiate heat in understatement,
and your soft voice beckoning the plants back to life;
like alluring body structure does no good. Painted in death pallete,
foregoing fin, natural mitosis sees fit that no coda will reach the end.