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Hope rides low on blackened feathers |
Ravens [Aviery, part II] The crows flock round to have her, so scared as thrushes sing; as ravens, rave and gather, and flurry on the wing Scurry to the corners, to spaces in the dark Safe in the black they mourn her, the catalyst... the spark Nestled in nostalgia, a nest of magpie's things A pilfered, false valhalla, piecemeal paper kings Fishers of a future, a midas touch, so cursed Fissures, rough with sutures, confide in things much worse as scarecrows line the fields, their burlap masks belie; the truths that they might yield, the lies they would decry So paranoid, they circle, the ravens and the crows; with murmers sworn, they hurtle, through patterns ploughed in rows Furrows that they planted, fields that they ploughed; furloughed, took for granted, the things they were allowed Harvests that they feared, things they could not keep; rewards too prized...revered, returns they would not reap Crops that circle, overlap, wings craven, play their part; whilst shrouded 'neath the course burlap, beat straw drawn, yellow hearts Avoiding ravens in the room, crows cower in the cracks; with wastelands, do our wings attune, this aviery... it lacks Shinies lost in fields past, in pastures sown in doubt Regrets as shadows stretch and last, hopes falling, reaching out through red motes gathered in the grass, 'midst handfuls of distrust Sand lost, slipped through the looking glass, with fear in the dust Injured, winged, crows go to ground, stood fast as fisher kings Whilst ravens flock and fuss around, ... and flurry on the wing |