Where The Crow Feeds

Where The Crow Feeds
There is a bitterness instilled and growing. A habitat of woes poured through the grout-laden tiles. Sacrificed as brine burdened tears and inched toward desert ground below. And here is where the crow feeds. Nestled against the marrow remains. Latched onto feathered-whispers meandering stretched out corridors. He caws. Cries out and pecks the places he exists. Broken, hallowed and shamed into boney crumbs. Comes again, the agony dance. A thousand droplets drenched cascade through victim chambers, round the bowels and out into the essence of darkness. Evaporated with each pressing. A salt-lathered stain against tainted black. Beak to bone. Talon to ash. Weathered door creaks opens to an endless echo of isolation. I am this shattered bird. I am this proclaimed prey. Slathered in likeliness, prancing round the corners, where burden lives. Shifted into form anew, turned into unfamiliar, still carrying the weariness of loss. I hear him clawing at the pieces below. Beneath the marble crushings—how he weeps. How he mars the destitute of his own hallowed out regions, emptied beyond starvation. The pool of self, shaken, moved and unmoved by worlds forgotten. Edged back, he endures, counting the ways in which his agony survives victor, in which his piercing eyes pierce that which is about, lavishing the view with what seems as bleakness awoken. Terrible he is, in his misery. But terrible worse is the way in which ‘what was’ has returned once more. Again, he calls out from beneath the remnants of fragmented substance. Devastated in a state of weary forlorn. Forgotten by self, and still there, in his sheltered state. “I am here,” he sings, from beyond the trees winter foliage, drenched in muted grey. “I am here,” the song carries, far above the collapsed sky. “I am here.” And his tears swallow themselves—one upon the next—tumbling gems catching the wind. If only he could see enough to lift his tethered eyes. If only he could hear his own song, seize the dying shell, and rise once more through scattered bones.
Samantha Craft

The Wind

I am as the wind. I am the wind. And was the wind. Pressure pulled through, substance rallied and released, treasures unfolded, emptiness astounded. Less here than there, and summoned forward.

I am an eternal balancing beacon. Twice-revealed and mastered, rectified in my indignation, made whole in my completions, eradicated from the darkness. Tethered to what awaits.

I am human, made flesh and broken through. Divided into regions of unknown territory, sifted with flecks of gold into the adobe of awakening. Branded by self-made-self.

I am sight emerged, free to take what is and what isn’t. Seared at tattered seam, edged shut and welded wide to the masses. Prisms merged. Opaque glass pouring spectrums through high window.

I am everywhere and nowhere, and all at once I am splintered. Burst into centrifuge, cascaded upon the spawned pond of unraveled surrender. Pierced, as dawning gait emerged. Sunlight beckoning distant traveler.

I am the exact measure of awareness, bewildered by all, twisted into form, neither recognized nor denied, taken to the layers beneath the layers, the tunneled chambers of desires struck down and left flailing.

I am there, in the under regions, chasing my dreams as salmon-pink to pounding stream, pushing upwards upon a tear filled staircase to destiny. Standing, once-removed: birthing, dying and rising through the cycle.

I am there, some undone wind, seeping through the fissured stucco into the unyielding corridors of reason.

Samantha Craft

Everyday Aspergers the book available in 2016.
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