Arterial silences, filled with
Muted staccato thumpings,
The cheap whispers of
Lovers, climbing like thieves,
Up the ropes of passion.
Perched, in quiet consideration,
Sits the corvus of conscience.
Beak shut, eye glittering as he
Watches with an inscrutable grin
The fumblings of liars in love.
Feathers tarred, teeth broken from
The cheap stones of whiskey and pills,
He sits. Not preening, not caring, only
Looking into the spines of those below.
His cracked and weathered talons shift.
He is silent, knowing his call will be lost to the wind.
