Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Post mortem

less people
no talking heads
fill my ears with music
the rustle of leaves
the distant croak of the raven 

the wheezy call of a boreal chickadee
my deafening respirations in winter's silence
and isolation of disconnectedness

learn to pluck my instrument
fill my soul with song
drown out demons
take cover among the trees

feel the wind in my ears
heed the chatter of winged things
decorate my soul
with creature comforts
not found in the greed 
and poison will of man

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