It is grief: living with grief, becoming grief everlasting. Grief is all that we leave on this mortal coil. Grief is what we become. This is the belief. This is the belief of the congregation of the Church of Crows.
This is.... I am - was - grief
The feeling is now artificial.
Needs concocted and mixed.
No longer muscle memory.
A veteran of what was ever seen.
“That must have been awful”
It truly must have been.
You shall be the same.
Great fish bowl tears for ------,
turn aquariums for blue fish.
Budding hanging clouds:
listless and nowhere near inclined.
“I wander drenched, I’m lost”
You’ll find a path, in time.
On ash crackled lines
disconsolate creatures call:
wail out over raw grey lands.
Concerto of night sea inconsolate.
“Do these creatures fly?”
In murmurations inchoate.
These spirits move around.
Moulding, taking misshapes.
Them: I venture through
what’s drawn as easy from a quill.
“If they lose shape entirely?”
They cannot; never will.
Priest, Mortis-infinite,
perched among the gods.
Appreciates performances,
proffers down thorny roses.
Cheers and jeers our little show.
“Is that the sound above?”
Yes. Cawing of the crow.
Scythe reaper of our harvest.
Warm in the August dry wheat sun.
Laid and aired as stickling sheaf,
Creatures for other’s grief.
We’ll pour our ink to the inkwell.
Swoop in dusk-lit-batic feats.
In life’s rafters we’ll take a bearing beam.
“Has this always been our purpose?”
It has truly always been.
