I see the world in negative detail.
Trees grow like white shrouded fungus,
Reaching into the deep stillness of forest—
Soundless, but for the cawing of crows;
Lifeless, but for the glossy beads of keen eyes.
The moon pulses black in the milky sky,
Poised in mid-fall like a tarnished quarter that gives none;
Time has never known the concept of mercy.
Crows circle the hollow moon like a coin to collect,
Like we all do, grasping for the shining things.
I believe I once glowed too.
Perhaps that is why they plague me now.
The berry-dark eyes that once burned
Like black holes in empty space
Now glint with frosted cataracts.
In those icy orbs I read adverse omens;
Reflecting back recollections gathered
From the oracle bones they've picked clean.
My future. My bones.
This vision of bones tells me I'm dead
Even though I believe I live.
Thought and memory have wings, and these crows fly to me,
Scattering mercurial droplets of the past in my mind.
But I don’t want these shadow-splashed Rorschach blots.
They leave behind nothing but a blazing afterimage
Of stained feathers and moldy breadcrumbs,
Leading me towards a cold and greedy black-lit corona.
I stand in a darkroom,
Awaiting something like the end of an eclipse,
But nothing ever changes.
Perhaps the void will let me go,
And I may yet wander back through the gates of forget.
The eyes of crows tell me I'm a ghost—
I say we all are.
Trees grow like white shrouded fungus,
Reaching into the deep stillness of forest—
Soundless, but for the cawing of crows;
Lifeless, but for the glossy beads of keen eyes.
The moon pulses black in the milky sky,
Poised in mid-fall like a tarnished quarter that gives none;
Time has never known the concept of mercy.
Crows circle the hollow moon like a coin to collect,
Like we all do, grasping for the shining things.
I believe I once glowed too.
Perhaps that is why they plague me now.
The berry-dark eyes that once burned
Like black holes in empty space
Now glint with frosted cataracts.
In those icy orbs I read adverse omens;
Reflecting back recollections gathered
From the oracle bones they've picked clean.
My future. My bones.
This vision of bones tells me I'm dead
Even though I believe I live.
Thought and memory have wings, and these crows fly to me,
Scattering mercurial droplets of the past in my mind.
But I don’t want these shadow-splashed Rorschach blots.
They leave behind nothing but a blazing afterimage
Of stained feathers and moldy breadcrumbs,
Leading me towards a cold and greedy black-lit corona.
I stand in a darkroom,
Awaiting something like the end of an eclipse,
But nothing ever changes.
Perhaps the void will let me go,
And I may yet wander back through the gates of forget.
The eyes of crows tell me I'm a ghost—
I say we all are.
