I will pick this black bullet night apart with wandering eyes,

I'm bending down pulling dead weeds from winter's throat.

Pitch black at 5 p.m. and this blackbird still crows out his love torn blues somewhere on a Hawthorne limb.

His agitated cry gurgling rat guts.

He inspires worms to crawl out and bathe in bone chilling rain.

He dumps his misery down
a thorny cry, spider webbing glass
maybe he lost his girl.

Now he assails rain beaten dark with all he has left.

His wings will still climb a dagger driven night.

Dusting off loss, his eye level disaster insisted for a winter song.

Death of sunshine.
Age of only Fog.
Three days and nights of rain and frost.

His bent temper rides a campaign trail with no rules.

He is a black jet project that defies earth schools.

Intimate with cloud.
Kissing both world's of sky.
His nest is unknown and nothing will rule over him.

He will perch on scraggly fairytales and spit his venomous woe to forest storm.

His cold passage offers no warmth but he will bolt like a stealthy warrior
and blaze his crown of thorns from winter's rough, entangled throat.

You will never hear him apologize.