Howling at the half-moon,
Sounds of a siren, mid night.
Waiting for the slow croon,
of a crow at mid-noon.

Is it too soon?
Don’t forget, the snow
Or the crow here and there
Carrion crow there and slow

Carcass of soft noon
Like the dead that swoon
Telling a story to the moon
And all it’s friends

Venus, circulating music,
Black like the death,
And the dirt on the ground,
That Venus has not found.

The gilded crown,
green as the cotton gown
of a woman not unfound
Grass falling uncut.

Withering, seething,
Forgotten in the hills
Of his story, breathing.
Keen and correct in time.

Of religion and lies,
The ancient bones,
Soft and crying,
For the irony of lying.

Their reign ages past,
Yet lost, steadfast
Like rain after the summer day,
Lost in the fray of the sky.

Moon and star,
Black mountainside.
Reign of ashes,
Stone free from the sky.

Scales dripping with power,
But white, held in towersCrows, Religion and Bones

And chapels of lizards,
Malevolence high and free.

Ministers of truth
Why the power,
but so uncouth?
Yet their time remains.

Their followers unbeknownst,
to their pain in falsehood,
like a ball and chain,
Outside, rain.

Inference? Ignored again.
Sheep following their herd,
The shepherd that has claims,
To his benevolence.

Men that are in sky,
Or are they knee-high?
The trees of worship,
Roots firm in the ground.

Leaves laced with reason,
Like the turning of season,
Or the water running,
Getting away from them.

Jupiter descends here,
The crow flies past,
And the cardinal,
who has nothing to say.

Slithering he waits,
the great snake,
Who commands fate,
Even when he’s too late.

The Sun still rises,
Even when the sky can’t hold it,
The emptiness commands,
And holds space with its hands.

The burning pillars,
and falling village,
At the birth of eruption,
And there is misconception.

And there she cries,
because of the fallen skies,
and they aren’t there to receive,
Why won’t they believe?