Friday, January 8, 2016

Crows of Morning

The curtains are diluted
By stray shafts of soft sunlight
Soon there will be none
As they build buildings all around me

The sky is a muted gray
The color of dirty water in sink
Is it supposed to be beautiful?
Or a sign of what the day would bring

Somewhere the crows of morning
A murder of them is up and alive
Dominating with harsh cacophony
Others survive but crows thrive

Feeling prufrockian as I muse on all this
While touching the crown of my head
Have I lost a few more strands
Should I go bald or dig my heels in
Against something that's bound to happen

A murder of crows woke me up, man. And now the pigeons have joined in too.

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