i am the raven

no, not the eagle,

perched atop your heart.

heralding its breaking.

a twisting in the wind,

a whipping of its chambered

recesses. 

and you drift in

like smoke,

to and fro.

the problem with suicide

is that it is a

singular endeavor.

and it robs you 

of your desire to die 

upon these hills repeatedly.

over and over

and over

again.

the night is

now without

its beasts and creatures -

alone and flat and

silent.

we followed

the ringlets

and kinks of smoke 

over the horizons

into the darkening

north.

a lorn north,

with no south -

no longer.

as the ash

like a tepid

choking snow fell

in sinuous arcs and parabolas 

through the gloam -

it fell upon our heads 

and into our eyes;

into rivers;

mudding the hills and fields -

we sloughed through it

and no one spoke.

no one had the courage

to utter those useless 

words amongst the

smoldering remnants

of trees.

not one of us said goodbye -

unconvinced of this

or any other end

as if this newfound silence 

would somehow keep 

each of us 

from our own 

little annihilations

and let our hearts -

finally -

take rest in the 

night.

the continents are
on fire.
and no one is surprised.
this is what we
have been working toward.
and this is what we reap.
clutching our misguided probity.
these facts grow anemic and skinny
into fleeting points of concern
and inconvenience.

we’ve moved on to other atrocities.

and what of your slatternly gods now?
they come begging forgiveness
for their derelictions.
the spears of this squalid destiny
piercing right through
their hearts,
their eyes,
their hands.

we’ve grown accustomed
to our holding of no thing;
to no thing hallowed;
to nothing sacred.

in our dreams
the vitiating silvered stags,
with their antlers
of smoke
and ash,
go leaping through
fields of yellow rape
in bloom and sway.

and in the darkening winds,
whispering in the
evanescing forests
they all pause and marvel at
the vehement glow just beyond
the thinning trees.
and even now,
in what might pass for rain,
the seeds withering
and us weeping in
the dead leaves.

in the holding of that,
with which my hand
holds no thing
no more

of that within it
emptied out
and no one
i became

and oh!
if I were to no
longer look back
from thence on!

for,
it will take a turn
as it cometh
forth

so, i’d hold the little calf
or bleeting lamb
and spare it from the
edge and ax

but each tooth
will take it's due,
turn my pale limb black,
taketh of bone and flesh

twist and turn
my turgid soul
inside
and to the out

it will take of me bit by bit
bine my heart becometh
and as i hold and hope
and sing

the night
crushing
it cometh