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Layla Sweigart Poem
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 © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
Layla Sweigart Poem
you asked me how to walk with scissors
I said my dear,
that's so bizarre
that's like asking how to get to Georgia
without using planes or cars,
a better man
than myself
would've told you
darling
if you wanted to learn how to walk with scissors
you're better off crawling
you hold them by the blade my love
just like you did to me
you tell me that you love me babe
but I cant stand to watch you leave
I'll watch you walk out that house
I cant tell fact from myth
I begged you just to stay a while
then you walked out,
with the scissors you stabbed me with
now I told you how to walk with scissors,
how could you do that to me?
now I know to hold on tight
because the scissors belong to me
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2025
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