|
| |
Suns of Crows
The throne of the crow
Dominates their subjects below
Scanning each plot of sow
For the murders they can overthrow.
The two withered branches from the tallest trees
Seat the crow and its eyes to see that vast blue sea.
Its vertical stick, oddly a nature of patriarchy.
Long ago, from a time we don’t know
Zeus grew this tree from his seed
And its green leaves flourished
As the sun sat high in the sky.
While the top branch leaves the only reminisce
That of Zeus’ pick.
Magpies, pigeons, and crows
They are his sons and successors of valiant beaux.
But black and brown birds hopping in the yard
Harbouring their sights on the brown dirt
Pulling the earthly worms that Gaia set upon them.
An inflow of peace and happiness
Churns my creative outflow
And a few droplets of invisible snow.
I see their chirps drowned by auto-noised-polluted-mobiles
I hear the silent blissfulness they secrete within my yard of worms.
Cannibal birds, I yield my anger from you
It is these mindless mucks
Who reserve my destructive emotion descended from mother nature herself.
She and her daughters and her sisters and her sons and her twins and her lovers
Lay in their graves of sorrow
From the forced submission of killing machines
Resembling man and his bloody best friend.
She dominated no one but herself
This kindness for weakness
Gripped by the bloody hands of the Man.
They shed this blood of mimic yearly
We shed our ancient blood monthly.
We know this blood naturally
They know this blood brutally.
Copyright ©
Nicole Seefeld
|
|