And to whose distant flock will these words fly to
I find freedom only in feathers of greater things than I
Smaller things that have never known a cage
That have never known complaint
That have never once found agony in who they are or what they do or where they fly
Beloved things bringing beautiful things
They bring with them some promise that this will be better
That the boy will be better
He sees them where he goes
The crows
He has seen them for years now, strange things that fly out and away from him but leave behind small freedoms
Such as feathers
They do not leave him, these crows and he has found some contentment in their company and tonight he must wonder aloud
To whose distant flock will these words fly to
These spilled-out texts, illegible scratches in any other time weaved fervid by madmen and their trembling fingers
This uncaring piece that does not dare ignoble itself with the presumption of poetry
This piece which only says that he sees the crows
I see the crows and I think of Inanna
Why?
He sees the crows and he finds at times
His dreams promise peace and
show him his beauty and
Show him his wish's beauties and
Show him his desires beauties and
Show him the beautiful furl of some
Awesome instrument of freedom unfurled out from behind his shoulders, beautiful things, once white and shimmering and splendid and now black and sweeping and striking, no less beautiful than they were before, no less resplendent in how they attend their prince
And the freedom comes, and he weeps
He does not laugh. His joy is too heavy for laughter alone
The joy from him
Who flies
Is this what you wanted?













