18 November 2020

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.

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