Murders of crows bow tarshine heads
and flutter
and dissipate-
dapples of ink on her greyscale canvas fibre.

High her
eyes: they water in a newfound void
of soundlessness
the empty wreck of ornamental fragments
shards for the looker-on
pieces to dole for the soulless wanderers
(sympathy-, empathy- seekers)
who march into the daily mudslicks
thankless, yet breathing
dilated and soft.

Solemn is the day
for we have made this place our way
and we will sigh with it
and bend at whim, when it so spineless bends
collect like sifted lint
like Draino victims in the black U-bend
like gaping mouthes in fresh new nests.
We'll wear our hearts where they belong
and watch a collective beating slow...

In the sky there are branches that hang like birds legs,
spar the sky, an effort to re-gain silken leaves.
Their springtime glory's a laughing stalk
of mulch that puddles around such gnarling feet
and ever so softly decays
as it sneaks its way up a sad tree's veins
and burrows deep within the bark-
furled and dreaming of chlorophyll.

And so it is told,
the indiaink-spot bleeds its way back
the canvas moans and sighs:

the murder returns.

12/26/2005

Posted on 12/26/2005
Copyright © 2025 Trisha De Gracia