::: Rustling in the Wind :::

it's a star-stained melody of a different sort
our passionate self-destruction
with many shining decadent words
and pagan holidays

with my dreams of pubic hair
and menstrual blood
I wake up in white panties
leaving you to sleep without me

in our bed of reeds and moonlight
you offer me lacquered trust
which is tempered in the ice of love
a lake falling to the sky

and the clouds tumble by
and the stars shine like snowflakes
as they fall onto our heads
and I wonder at hopes long since lost

::: Time to Time :::

from time to time
I think of you
though I'd rather not
I wonder where and how you are
only for it to pass again
but behind it lingers
an aching emptiness
at that certain point
where our souls once connected

it's no use, of course
to dwell
you have long since gone
like the smell of baking bread
when you've eaten the loaf
only the memory
maintains the sweetness passed

like dusty sunbeams
I could never forget you
filtering through my heart
pointing out all flaws
were actually in my mind
not that I heard
but I am listening now
intently I strain for your laugh
tickling at my nose

I loved you better when you went away
you never lied to me then
and I couldn't taste
that poison from your lips
still, it aches
when I accidentally remember
the man you aren't

::: Crow :::

I am the grave robber
hear my song
isn't it delicious?
but where shall I dig?
rather

where do I plant my beak?
the unmarked tomb is my own
to pick and chew
this emptiness of stone, this is mine
do you see?

it's my own eyes plucked
like clever fingers
to give new sight between these wings
hung up like a gallows
for clearer vision

bright jewels for dark talons
tasty morsels of joy
there's no shovel big enough for these
of all that was meant to be
ruffled feathers and blue skies

::: Black Birds :::

there's broken wings on the side of the road
so here I go painting feathers
such frightening colours
not unlike the stars
who scar the very night with their brightness
what joy

I espied another bird posed as though mid flight
however, I soon realized it was unmoving
dead but caught high in a tree
just like that
and I marvelled that it should remain in the sky
as in life

broken wings, dead birds
it's all feathers
they're meant to leave you staring at the sky
dire fascination
wondering at their fate

::: at the crossroads :::

I've heard stories
that once there was worshipped
a hanging god
in his honour they would sacrifice
men hung from the
gallows at the crossroads
where the roads met
was a holy place
I'm lead to believe this custom
was followed many places

these days
I walk down the street
paved not dirt
but still I can't help but to notice
these funny metal constructs
gallows at the crossroads
not quite the
wooden structures of yesteryear
since now, instead of men
we hang lights

is it still an appropriate sacrifice?