It sits on my shoulder —
a crow
weighing down,
bending a spine
that was once
so tall and proud.

Tainted blood
of the most precious
midnights hues
flow down my arm
from where black talons
had dug into the flesh.

Red is only fit for those with passion.

Mine had gone
so long ago,
taken away
by vultures
constantly feeding
on the broken dreams
of those delusional enough
to fancy themselves
artists.

Now I live
— barely —
as one of the broken
who sit and watch
as the lucky strut in arrogance
spilling watered down ink
at the expense of our blood.

But when the moon is high
and darkness comes alive,
my heart rejoices
as my mind rages
filling empty pages
with scornful desire
hidden in the sweetest of words.

The crow sings,
haunting the night
with the melancholy song
of a soul
invaded by the moon
and haunted
by broken dreams.

In the morning light
of the arrogant sun
as the moon disappears,
the words of the night
inked in blood
become nothing
but black smudges
to the eyes of the lucky
who think that ink
is the only thing spilled
to make art.

The broken
know very well
that empty words
written in ink
wash away
like promises on sand
but desire
inked in blood
will always glow red
in the moonlight.

So rejoice,
children of the sun,
for ink is cheap
and recognition
a giveaway.

Bask in the light
for as long as you can
because fame is short-lived
and the vultures are
starving.