Browsing The Last Library
Turning the page of questions
unasked
are we fiction
or nonfiction, these last days?
I know I'm not myth
despite the crows.
I dreamed of a red bird flying
with a yellow bird on his shoulder.
Red bird sweeping the blue years before him
over the threshold of night,
yellow bird singing her golden drops;
honey-blood rain as sticky and sweet
as yesterday's rotting bright heart.
Who holds the pen,
so obsolete?
I know it's not me,
scrawling directions to hell
while the mimosa fades
just some fiction caught on the teeth,
Prometheus's keyboard
dancing to the pecking of crows.
4 comments:
I love "not myth, despite the crows" and particularly the yellow bird riding on the shoulder of the red bird and all being swept and ended before and underneath them. The rotting heart is striking as well. This seems like a death song for our times.
Singing skull perhaps but what a gorgeous voice. And something about "Red bird sweeping the blue years before him / over the threshold of night, / yellow bird singing her golden drops" is so pure. If it's fiction, it's supreme. Thanks for tuning the choir at Desperate Poets so finely.
Oh wow, this is GREAT! I love so much of this: "I know I'm not myth despite the crows." and "Red bird sweeping the blue years before him." The closing stanza is outstanding.
Beautiful. That question of who holds the pen, left shivers. Sweetly dark writing.
Post a Comment
This is an anonymous blog. The author politely requests that the author's name not be used if known to you. Thank you.