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Without a Crow and Song

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That galaxy of longing
was almost ending,
falling into shattered feathers.
The crow was just about to change.
Instead, he flew.

He did not want to watch
as pink and blue ribbons
faded hysterically
into that scoffing sun.
The sun and the crow hid as

Rouged coals languished
long after midnight.
They left me alone
for a minute of failure.

That man was there with his
fire and words,
pulling and ripping
like the pleading knife
and the ice in my veins.

Crimson liquid would gather
and collapse in timeless
patterns of my
silenced heart.

But those days time was
a falter in the wind.
Minutes of failure drew to
hours of sorrow
until black took us like a room

built from my pitcher of bitterness.
It was his house of delight.
I was the beggar
without a song
for falling asleep.





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