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.