October nights, the octobral air
the old autumn movements, the quiet unrest
a spiring of crows reaches up from the overgrown grass
Hammer down on a newly slain doe
her once white crest is all matted with blood
she ain’t no sleeping god, she ain’t no oracle
and this place is no place to sow hope
I do still find joy in the company of men
and I’m still often knelt by a woman’s hand
so, in truth, i don’t know what this sadness is
I don’t know it’s name
When certain dark falls here, the reservoir parts
and the day-sleepers, silt-strung, rise up
they shuffle about, and they open their arms,
and gracelessly wait for the dawn
This place is so haunted - so swarming with ghosts -
that it’d take all my strength to get home
so I join their assemblies
I march when they lost
and I search for what light I have lost
Black-eyed choirs line the southeastern shore
their corded necks straining skyward,
and torn in their efforts to sing just one last earthy song
but nothing comes
just that terrible tidal sound from the depths of their gaping mouths
more reason to fear that what is sought here shall not be found
just bones
just bleached bones in the ground
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