Hezekiah Bates | + Follow Poet |
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Crows Abscence

Was the purpose of your absence an attempt at causing me pain? 
That crippling feeling, a spider spinning its web inside my mind. 
That arachnid, poisonous, jeers the word space like a handicap. 
That parasitic relationship forms a cloud covering the moonlight, 
A fog that swirls like a whirlpool in your absence. How rapturous  
Your paradox forming a bridge made from our memories. Broken and 
Reshaped they become the foundation to a journey in that sea you 
Created within me. Your withered emotions and fleeting empathy 
were a false proposition of hope only a jester would find funny. 
An exhibition of animosity lies in the silent waves – waiting – 
for our sunset. How beautiful its rays are against the black water;
falling into the abyss, hidden under that rain your pseudo blanket. 
Does the sunrise when you are blind? Does the moon set when
You can’t see the sky? That colorblind man sits there on the beach
Looking in silence. He cannot see his reflection within the water, he 
Stands and walks to its surface. There he finds a crow crippled, limping 
In the ripples where his reflection should be. That psychedelic feeling 
Draws in his drowning breathe, falling into the sea. Paramount to his 
Survival the man drowns, his understanding a paradox in his memory. 

Only he, the crow, remembers the light of the moon. Its pompous shape, 
that transcendent light, a memory to your decay. Only when yellow hits
 the eyes of the crow will that white light fade beyond the thunderstorm. 
He cries to the heavens, yet his speech murmurs under the weight. That 
Black water suffocates his prayer, but he finds comfort in his anonymity.  In 
the presence of absence the crow longs for loss. He who is stolen from 
wishes to be further buried, lost in the waves. That siren sings a fading 
melody back into his ears. His own prayer an anchor tied to his feet, 
 crippled in your memory. Fractured in his own faith, what god heard
 his suffering, his murmurs clots of air in a salty sea; black as the blood 
from the wound you carved out in his chest. What blessing filled
 his misery, that pseudo composition you create is a platter filled 
with the feather of the crow. His words held sweet your grace, 
an ensemble dancing in the mind of the forgotten. in the sea of 
his followers he is Poseidon, yet still the crow sank, anchored in misery.

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