The Sunday Poem


A string of charismatic maidens queuing
At my gates have spoken of great portents
They have read within the marrowed runes.
The raven’s arcing flight seemed quite important,
And the crow has shrieked me as a fainted-heart.
So must I write my intent on the sky?
Shoo! And sprawk! Curse of the feathered fiend
Upon you all and let me be alone!

My curse hangs in the air like, smokey gauze.
Then, little nails of no’s the rain spits down,
And anger swells within colliding clouds.
Even the squirrels mutter at me and frown.
The disapproving trees shake fingery leaves-
This raging of the whispering winds of change.

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