Sunday, May 01, 1994

ABSAROKE (B) (Bad Poetry)

I am the only outcast crow,
Born to serve the Darkest Lady,
But dreaming of the Light.
Corpses' eyes and burning cities
Kept my tribe alive for years,
Soaring on the night.
Flocking to Her as She dances
A blood-step on the smoke-choked air,
Lusting in the fight.
Writhing beats of wings and heart black
Ravening in tears of pain,
Slaked on mortal might.
But in the night of gorging plunder
I have seen the fire flicker
Far from camps of blight.
Flame to cloak Her, Flame to guide Her,
Flame to form Her tools of Healing,
Count'ring Death's despite.
I circle, watching, as I've gyred
A thousand times round fields of gore,
As though I were to strike.
Her fires lift my wings and heartache,
Her brilliance blanches my savage hunger.
I hold a purer flight.
Burn I must in apostate glory,
Severed from my carrion family,
Burning, burning bright.