We are all of us crows
devouring a corpse
bickering
pecking
cawing.
We deceive ourselves
forcing order into
the chaos
under a spell or a curse
an uninformed illusion.
Just like the goat
believes it is a lamb
because it has never seen
its own horns.
Each crow thinks itself
a dove.
A creature
of poisonous perfection
every feather a quill
writing absolute truths
in golden ink.
A shepherd
for wayward crows to follow.
But these feathers are not white.
Never were.
Never will be.
They use not ink
but blood, clay, and wine
painting a masterpiece
of honesty
smudged
and torn at the edges
with blotches of thick white tar
covering
beautiful chaos.
And this curse
will only lift
if we stop.
Pause.
Think.
And realize
there are
no doves.
YOU ARE READING
I Hate to Rain on Your Parade But I'm a Cloud That's My Job (Poetry Chapbook)
PoetryA collection of poems that don't really follow a theme at all. Some might be sad, some might be happy, some might be inspiring, some might be funny, most of them are entirely subjective. Some are very short, there are several haiku, but groups of th...
