The hatchling flew out of the nest;
But the crow was watching;
She flew for just a few seconds;
She flew her very best.
That was not good enough for life.
The glistening crow swooped down
Like a swift guillotine:
His wings the slice, his beak the knife.
That was an end to her being:
A month of chirping hope,
A month of familial love,
A month of believing.
16th April, 2011
05:37 am
I take a pencil and begin to write
And will my defeated heart into flight:
It seeks and tests the newborn airs of spring;
But frightened it recoils back within.
The mind and the heart – they are never one!
One seems the moon and the other the sun:
One has layers and layers of being;
The other different ways of seeing;
In one matter, they’re affected the same,
When one has a limp, the other goes lame.
Poesy takes wing at times from burnt hope,
When the mind thinks with a million’s scope,
Crystalizing with the breaking of the heart,
Into words that represent tortured art.
The days pass like friends who cared in passing.
The nights grow shorter with each smile.
Grey thoughts are quietly amassing.
Quietly they sift dropping into a congealed pile.
This pile lacks feeling of any nature,
Just a formless ah and oh of all time.
It has a large yet insubsequent stature,
Just like this worthless scrap of rhyme.
Nothing is dark here, nothing is light.
There could be matter, dear, there could be,
But of no use to those who grovel to fight.
Just a quiet nothing pile of a quiet me.
Regrets are time consuming and arbitrary.
What is the use of vanity and thought,
When all that happened and would is contrary
To any life bought, any love sought?
The pile lingers and quietly grows.
Perhaps the only thing
That ultimately knows
A last song to sing.
Hearts Still Care 
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