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Raven breath
By moon light, were did the raven weep, were did it’s blood
stained feathers fall. trail to dark haven, were no man has time
to smile. It will indeed take a while for any breath to not
frost, for any heart to beat warmly. Slowly the reality weaves,
like the spider’s dewy doilies that drift and flow with the
heavy night air. Kindled in low winter lighting, so that no
color is seen, the reaching long curling figures of the dark
watery faces that live through the pale care of the winds'
whip...that brings drips of starry tears, and the shad of doubt
cultivates many spiraling threads of fears. Reaping what is sewn
is the unveiling of a deceiver’s chortled words and gnarled
strands of figures that nudge like fat leaches on back side ones
neck. Mirth is only the last echo of the choked call, if your
hands are stained with the raven’s dripping liquid of breath.
Standing mountains are like the breaks to what can be defined...
if you call them less in a gritty jealousy, then what can be
gained from your brash hand would be like a waste land compared
to a forest that ridges the sides of the hills... The gain and
future is what you sew into your flesh, what threads and spool
from which you take will forever make crest upon your path. Let
the patterns be that of peace and greatness and not that of
malice, as the knots chock out any hope.
-summer downs
About the author:
Praise the Lord for every day we do not lie sneer, or betray.
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