Wednesday, February 25, 2015


Every single day the crow sleeps
convinced that she will grow red feathers
beyond her ebony glimmer,
that at a certain point she will
willingly turn into a vision,
with a voice soft like morning larks
chirping water into crystals
the conviction holds her by the tongue, the reddest,
the harshest to manipulate her daily rounds of ranting
the crow knows what works and what's best for her skin
yet she knows, the darkest of spite, the harder it is to hide
dye, coloration and disadvantages of managing time
by the call of each new morning, the crow awaits
the turn of tides, into red, the color of apples,
the glory of sin and beauty, and fatal attraction.

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