From the window the sky empties to nothing
and the murder of crows, with their ravished beaks,
groan for the hollowed
inhabitants of the passing day.
Insatiable sorrow, with its draughty halls, sent a gleaming sword to consume the passing madness
only to be
plunged into a diminishing perspective.
Inside I trawl the motionless ravines, a twisting hatred that bubbles from
under the steaming, scarlet brook
while the incessant rain washes away the gnawing of your imprisoned eyes.
Anger, with it's
steaming arrows, cuts through the dank air
dissecting the worn out guilt of October's echoes that drip sadly
from the dead
but before they cold leave
they spent a cold summers eve
tending the knotted despair
of a ravaged