A Murder

by

The murder settles around me
judging me with rude calls—
a cacophony of dark portent
drapes like a pall
signalling my doom.

And I love the murder
with all it’s ominous gesturing
full of dark rustle and scraping caw.
From deep within the sharp and grasping maw
I hear my name called out sharp, rasping and raw
with strong hints toward apocalyptic prophecies
that surround, but somehow, cannot touch me
and I laugh, in the gloom, at all they foresee
because there is no guilt in being guilty.
I was made to love the murder.

Sadly, it becomes bored and takes wing
taking the chorus of discontent away.
I’m sad to lose their violent affection.
For all their rude ways, they see me
and call my madness
for what it is.