Crow Calls

The blasted fields offer little carrion and less comfort

I aimlessly dart across the landscape of pumpkin innards,

Now withered with the iron edge of


Eventually perching on telephone wires

The eyes of the past see right through me

An ebony wing of



And harsh caws

At the thought

Of frozen streams

You see me from the inside of a frost-covered pane

A quick gasp in terror

My forceful exhalations


American crow, courtesy of

American crow, courtesy of

That’s right, your loved one is dead

Plummeting, plummeting

Inside the dead heart’s reckoning

How to be welcomed, not just tolerated?

Voices of prophecy

Alone, amongst stubbles of wheat stalks

The future is rejection

The present, self-immolation

As I’m swept aside by brandished guns—

Your voices of arrogance

This is timeless twilight

The unspoken fear festers, lingers

As I dream of darker things to come

Shunned by your hands

I’ll soar into inky space,

The cipher

Of the dead heart’s reckoning


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