somewhere deep
inside the stomach of a crow
satire breeds it\'s vengeance
biting through a walnuts scant remains;
what day on earth is this?
now one less mouth to prod and poke forlorn
three-sided long
eclipsed by moon and tablet less supreme;
one look of scorn
shatters atoms brighter than a flare.
now wiles away the hours of such pain;
as scared as death.
some speak of death as nothing but a spark
that lights and rears it\'s children second best,
flamingo-blue for the setting down in stone.
no longer bone of man,
nor flesh of woman
abstract; fancy free;
knee-deep in shapes more rounded
than my eyes of seraphim;
immaculate as moth through a talking cloud,
begging for the red meat of despair;
perhaps I part my hair,
startle passers-by with the warmth of a neon light?
don\'t look too hard the tulip of my tears.
they are nothing more but water
somewhere deep
inside the stomach of a crow;