i remember growing up
with the cemetery behind the house
making up stories about how we lived and died
laying with our heads by the stones
pretending we were the ones beneath the grass.
every november the crows would flock
the noise was audible so far away
the awful cawing, the twitching movements
both animal and somehow human
picking at the shiny trinkets
the families left for the dead.
we would escape, run free
trip over head stones and bleed profusely
time was black enough, sunlight was all
blood was proof of freedom gained
under the watchful eyes of angels with broken arms.
No comments:
Post a Comment