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.