When our chest, house of the heart

is laid open, nakedly shredded,

ribs cracked apart, the carrion birds

of our darkest realities

peck and stab, tearing chunks

of yesterdays, also laid bare

from the bloodied flesh of

our morose todays.

We cannot see a sky,

whether grey or blue,

when the crows come

to eat our dreams and

blacken the horizon of our hopes.

But, even a small child,

whose heart has yet to be broken

can run with heedless joy,

through the foul flock,

scattering the scavengers that lust

after a mouthful of yesterday’s bad news.

To find this one is no more

to feed the crows.

Picture: www.opednews.com