Chirping Crows
A burst, that which I cannot hold,
A blast, that which clasps and grips all but control;
Walls are falling inwards, collapsing evenly,
The stem updrafts the horrid torrid with ease and leisurely,
Amazed at this discontent and this misfit’s toroid with screes of breezily glee.
To live a bold life yet shocked
When choked in it,
And shook by it.
The cloud that which covers the sea of decrees.
I burst in tears, slump and tumble,
Crumble as I subside and cheer for plea.
Maybe it’s autumn,
Where the fall makes anew,
The cumbersome state,
Where predators stew,
And the ungrateful queue for when my crown is due.
Alone is all I wanted,
A dream satiation,
Saturated by excavations of the askew,
A temptation overdo,
A fight for the untrue.
This is a battle with a seam of borrowed thoughts,
The ones with several lines and several marks,
Patches of right and writs of spark;
The never ending extent of an enemy’s bark.
I am tired, flexible discomfort, and flowers to harm;
The fun,
That which made me cover my arms,
And bow a greater power and disarm,
The foul roots that made the trunk squirm;
Disinfecting the iniquitous stink blown by those nefarious winds…
A moment to shelf…
A moment to breath and exhale…
I am exhausted; leafing the wedge and mastering the self.
The pose I hold and make is made,
The fade i seek is grey in shade,
The chirping crows, the murder brigade,
My tree of wit must fall and break.
