Thy crows loiter on mornings
fever, blossom brightening to
thee. But when  petals awaken,
onyx lullabies tear each asunder.

Woeful of the beauty of years,
            thy fallen moments collect
like tattered curtains of life.
   Crows sing sirens of despair,
joyful of the passing beauty..

And still they look upon thee,
        no longer petals of years stand.
they wait till your stem of life wilts.
With but a moment of silence when all
has fallen, they bow, wings dispersing life.

Oh god we are so vulnerable, out in the open plains where people go to pray and mourn. Here there is no such thing as time, no such thing as God.

Next to a building of white wood slats, rising upwards, black tipped. Here I can reflect on my own sadness. My own to mourn. If how we met was anything less than bad timing I'd become everything good I've ever come across. But that wasn't how we ended up.

The cut out silhouettes of crows are still a cut out silhouette of ****** in this gray-scale graveyard beside a rusted worn down place of worship I cannot believe in a God so cruel as to let die our hearts or our bodies. All I hear is the wings of crows and the open air for miles around.

I’m like a knock-off Edgar Allen Poe
But instead of raving about a raven
I croon about a crow
Who comes a-fluttering
And I start my muttering
About I do not need savin’

There are the whispers that call the crows and these crows are numbered three. They are named Gullibility, Doubt and Misery

If ever a time you lose your strength or become lost amongst the pain, then these three crows will ensure you never find your way

Gullibility you see, with eyes as black as mud, has razor claws always red for he always draws first blood

Doubt is quite plain but with ruffled feathers greyed. Not so much the specialist, but is best amongst the plague

And finally swoops Misery, bloodied beak on black. The final move in a worn out soul, Death's merciful attack

where a storm brews
where the crows linger
where the people know them
but not by name
far away from where they had fallen
long ways away
from where they will rise once more

for now
they sit in the corner
of a place they love
building wings from feathers
left behind by the crows
who stare unbothered on the road

the first pair of wings were too small and ragged
a thing of pride but no structure
not meant for flight but holding them gave hope

the second pair took years
knowing the basic formula now
each feather painstakingly placed

the third pair was an experiment
a challenge to push the limits
to use instead of the pristine second

the fourth was a throwaway
born of desperation and frustration
with these they flew and fell
  
the fifth pair was a copy of the second
but fine-tuned and reinforced
and with them the crows left

The crows did hover above life's crumbling
shadow, never one to be swallowed in the mumbling
screams of what kept even death away.
But life hangs like a noose slowly eroding the way.

Tears of black feathers fell, as darkness sailed on
a sea of eclipsing movements. Twilights black swan
collected on life, and then was static as life bled feeding
on the misgivings that fed a misguided needing.

Shallow where the echoes beneath onyx feeding,
as glimmering hope faded and the inevitable pleading.
For but one more collection of endurance fading.
Then silence as clouds descended, how death became degrading.

You and I
Used to be like two branches intertwined
Now we stand separate as two trees.

How can that be?
To be together, yet feel so lonely?

Two many crows sit in my leaves
My limbs ache
from holding so much weight.

The wind doesn't whisper
It's silent
Like the space in between
You and I.

The crows called to me this morning
So early it was dark
They told me that they missed me
Their song met my insanity
And, together, we sung a lullaby
Under a blood red moon
The perfect ******

A row of ten pigeons on the edge of
A roof while balancing their perspective
They bob their heads to be more objective
A few of course are at their beaks for love
Two among them resemble a white dove
As they fly my poetry finds motif
On my flower a few are destructive
For few minutes I look and dwell above
Suddenly a crow joins them in the row
I too am taken a little aback
Activities of the pigeons get slow
In the focus of pleasure a slight crack

Both the pigeons and crow in our thoughts grow
It’s good that now the white pigeons are back