i’m the rook
that took to my branch,
tree of silhouette lightning,
pecking the pelt off my prey
i’m casting them away for the sport of it.
if i take off,
like how the tide that comes and crashes,
foam and salt spitting,
eventually draws back, retreating back to the sea,
i won’t return in the same familiar form.
thorns for feet, a midnight beak.
i’ll take refuge in knowing you shan’t
remember me
but i’m the rook that pierced you,
strung you
hung you on my tree.