On becoming a raven
a poem
One morning, curious, I glanced into a looking glass,
and to my great surprise,
what looked back was a haggard,
asymmetrical face and a hunched nose,
and out of the crowded eye’s corner,
raven feet stared back.
A sudden shrill undulated
across my spine,
as my arms opened
into wings.
Flash floods ushered in
memories of a life lived,
and lifted,
and flew me up by-and-by,
and I looked down
over the landscapes of lives
carved under pressures of will, fear, destiny,
each persisting in intransigence.
Suddenly, from there, all was clear.
From there, I could see
all as lived,
and understood so much more,
and not just by me.
Yes, all became clear.
How it all started, so vibrant,
full, rich with promise and hunger
if not yet skill nor talent, nor knowledge,
and if fear-stitched,
still managed to fill with plats of plenty.
Much time passed by
and, this morning, suddenly
the spark went out,
just like that, a moment,
as if by magic, pulled by gravity, I noticed
how ash was overtaking,
and how the raven’s wisdom plucked
the soul from this old,
haggard heart.
Just as with a finger snap, time is almost up.
Darn, and here I was just now relaxing,
just as I was settling down.
Oh, the irony!
