Wine And Crows

Where is the strange wine that we were promised?

Where is our dream glow of sun?

Where is the heart for those who have waited,

the vibrant rest of motion when rest is done

and the long decay of decay.

Where is the force to be gathered

that through the green fuse of the soul

would drive the soul flower in the blood's ray

to linger in eternal shine

and never ending sun?

When here there is only silence

and the dark heart of dark darkness.

When here there are only faces,

mute and murdered by days,

with gaping, slack holes where mouths should be,

pale and lifeless,

the empty sockets of their eyes

limp and hung like rags of skin

on poles of skull and bone.

When here there is only the promise of pain,

mute desire

and wrongful annihilation.

The strange black crow is calling.

The strange black crow that flaps its wings

is dancing on our thirsty grave

as he turns to face us once again

and caw.

-- September 19, 2014