That white,
that which awe unsullied
blinking like feather lashes
from a face of cloudy blue.
That which our youngest love-face
looked up to with the glow—
of the chosen blessed.
We watch with glassy eyes
its bogus manifestation,
its sibling dirty grapplings,
of greedy spites, ever dark
with vulture beaks.
Malice is a thing with feathers too,
with talons bloodied
of the dove raped mid-croon,
from its perch of endless cheer.
The hawk’s jeer.
Outside the window sill, a finch,

a flinch.

01/07/2013

Posted on 01/07/2013
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