Feelings - A Poetry Collection

Raven

The horizon is a raven, watching carefully,
Its demeanor like a vulture who hasn't eaten in days.
And footprints appear in the snow– their suitor
Nowhere to be seen, perhaps hidden by the pools
Of dark red ichor marking the spot they end.

The forest becomes a flurry of eyes, staring
At the oncoming passage of a journalist searching–
They desire a proper story, one that can be shared
With an audience who will faint in response;
Shock, terror, filling their lungs like nicotine.

But as they trek, their footprints decrease in size–
The impact they long to make shrinks like an
Armadillo hiding from a coyote's pursuit.
They write curiously about the crimson blood,
Wonderstruck by the lack of the victim's body.

The sky draws clouds in warning, and the man
Ignores them to continue their tireless scavenge–
The tears of the clouds do little to stifle them,
Their attention turned away from peering eyes.
And looming treetops cast shadows to hide them.

The shriek concurs, now aware of the danger,
But like every traveler before, it becomes too late.
The man's body falls, their eyes drained of light–
Sapped by the unearthly dark void of a silhouette,
Teeth widened, blood stained aspirations.