Black As A Crow’s Wing


His eyes, a midnight pool of secrets.
Angled jaw jabbering in the smothered air,
unaware how his words wrap around my throat.
He perches on my fence, claws digging in
to the splinters of my soul.
I am the scarecrow of whom no one is afraid.
He can raise his arms and strike me
with the palpitations of his pull.
Face, immovable, a stone silhouette
etched into the veins of night.
My mind quivers in the abyss of those eyes,
hovering, straight laced in laughter,
constantly drawing closed the curtain of his confidence.
I am but a fleeting fragment, fractured by
pecking against my straw heartstrings.
Each piece bends and locks in crooked lines
before he sets them straight again.
Nothing is certain.
I echo my mouth across a barren field,
his name burned into the sky.
He is miles removed, splattering a
fistful of feathers like breadcrumbs
on upturned soil,
daring me to interpret this trail
and waiting to see if my courage will
take flight after him.

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