Wednesday, July 08, 2009

found an old poem

while looking through my files:

Without Ravensong

Raven's used to nest here once,
beaks full of lucky coins and sunshine.

They'd play for hours, dip and twirl,
then curl against my breast and rest.
Tell stories to the pearl moon
of daytime colours which night light
turns to grey.

Tales of children crouched beneath flailing fists,
of beds pressed against virgin doors
while angels hail, suspended beyond the window,

they wove a rainbow corona around the lunar orb
but now my ravens have flown away into the solar burn.
The moon is torn asunder and bleeds silent rivers
over my skin
scored with ravensong.


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