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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