Time is as real as we make it
      out to be in our minds
        time seems to be a
           metaphor for a
              controller
               *******
             the life out
        what is time really
     you're late, you're early
  the sand is running out quickly
the clock is sneakily ticking midnight

I find myself
getting lost
within the concrete
that is cold and cold
resigned to white walls
while the worth of my words
are measured
in glass flasks
there is no soul here after all  
and I will soon grow
used to the blank stares
of mirrors
the hardness
of science

this time memories
of the sky
will not save me at all
from such a fate

It’s not over until all the crows
fall from holes opening in the clouds--
sunlight washing cracked concrete white.

I refuse to let your actions fade to static until
the last ca-caw echoes on parkways silent
as the attempted protests of the girls you *****.

I could count five of them by the time I left, yet
none seemed able to open their stitched lips
despite my rallies and strong-worded speeches.

Maybe that’s because you laughed at them, too,
when they threatened to file police reports.
But five years have past since then,

and the rage freezing me from the inside out
has begun to fade, slowly, thawed under
a sun growing steadily more yellow--warm,

my friends always said it would be
if only I would just give it a chance--
all the crows are falling.