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that sticky sick,
black-oiled feathers all
flat and slick
can't get it off and it's hot
but it's not
a lick or a slap
or a black-blued punch in the dark,
it's seeping sap
a weeping, small-worried wound
blooming into a spectacular display of decay
and it doesn't make a fuss
it doesn't know how to be loud
it waits, forgetting the bait,
halfhearted
a sweet death it tries to be
a wary anarchist
making empty motions through its teeth
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INADRM
wow!!!!! this is amazing
Lord Byron Silverhand
I once made a playlist called "Anarchy in the USA" and it was in like 2012 or something. I didn't realize it would be quite so prophetic ten years down the road.
Shadow Bliss
Cool. I think I get the feeling the poem is conveying.
Kathleen
love.