What are those words, poet,
Flying around your mind
Like crows, peering over your thoughts?
They seize your anguish
And knead your sorrow.
In their pointed beaks
Your delights wriggle, out of breath.
The raven exhales.
Its sigh’s your essence
Condensed in the rims
Of its pitch black feathers.
Its blood’s a bottle of ink
That carries your secrets.
In its eyes, staring, sable
Against the blank paper,
Lays your reflection.
As it spreads its wings among its peers,
The black loops of their outlines stir.
Sentences are born out of their number,
Their flock foaling your narrative.