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morning crows

Sometimes, in the mornings, The morning crows don’t sing— Perched and preaching by a loblolly. Breathe in this metanoia, We all live for it. And if the morning crows never reverenced, Sitting at my doorstep, Waiting for my feet to touch pavement, I might’ve deemed you worthy of abasement. But the morning crows chant my indiscretions, To the man in the moon, Too far to touch, too distant to see— So I cannot tell him Of my worries. Fill up this cup with your americano— It’s been so long since I’ve tasted of it. The morning crows fear I will be different When the sun sets And daybreak ends. So I hide in my sleigh bed, Too frightened to tell you That I am revolutionizing myself. The morning crows now mourn the loss of youth. As I settle down to become holy, They sing my death— Heedlessness, Widening your eyes, Sharpening your grin. When I wane once more, The morning crows will say, They told me so. Perched and preaching by a loblolly, I am reclaimed, rosy-eyed. Breathe in this metanoia. We all live for it—

Copyright © | Year Posted 2024




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Date: 1/25/2025 11:02:00 AM
well sone on your featurwd poem
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Date: 11/2/2024 5:46:00 AM
Thanks for sharing this... exposing your thoughts through your unique poetic style. Welcome to Poetry Soup. I welcome you with the love of the Lord, expressed by John 3:16 of the Bible, "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." Be blessed.
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