|
Darkling
by David HillThe old institution
stands in the shadows
of centenary oaks,
blindly blinks
when a stark beam
slips through.
A murder of crows,
dark as silhouettes,
watch and wait
upon the many ledges.
They bitterly caw
in the dense swelter,
calling out a fate
that carries
on a musky breeze
that stirs the trees,
a count of those
that never leave.
The residents here,
bones brittle as sparrows,
spines curved into questions,
the world a puzzle
beyond their powers.
Within these walls,
they grow smaller,
smaller,
disappear.
07/23/2008 Author's Note: hospital, rest home, sanitarium
Posted on 07/24/2008
Copyright © 2026 David Hill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 07/24/08 at 04:31 AM You've created a 'place set aside' here, a waiting and almost a living rotting. Of course I love the use of the "murder of crows" - who gave them that collective name, anyway?? - it is perfect for the ambiance in this. I'd say you've served your title well. |
|
