To My Friend-The Crow
The sky breaks apart into pieces.
In-between the cracks of shadow,
A blood-moon wilts like small talk.
Where shadow trembles,
A dead opossum’s neck twitches.
While a murder of crows
Tugs at its intestines.
Wrapping pink organs around their beaks.
Warm as a sunset.
They don’t desire
Bread crumbs from elderly fingers.
It’s the dead
Not the dying
Father Thomas attempts.
Throwing day old handfuls
Of the Body of Christ.
To a Crow,
It’s the dead
Not the dying they crave.
The Body of Christ
Tastes like salt.
And all the water fountains
Are closed for the winter.
A.j. Binash's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (To My Friend-The Crow by A.j. Binash )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- After All, Ryan Scales
- Poet Freak Tide Wave Words, Terence G. Craddock
- A PRETTY MARRIAGE OF OUR TIME, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- A Horrible Howl In A Winter Wonderland I.., Ryan Scales
- A Horrible Howl In A Winter Wonderland, Ryan Scales
- 21 Shades Of Blue Intertext Part 1: The .., Ryan Scales
- Poet Bound Sentenced Ancient Mariner Tides, Terence G. Craddock
- THE FACE OF THE BLOODY MASSACRES, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Cat Faces, Ryan Scales
- Far, Brandt Nightingale