the faceless ones here have no eye on history for history ended in fire and ash only that which came before and in their final choking, smoking breaths was of significance to them, they bore no witness imparted no wisdom once the darkness lifted and their flesh turned to sand within their killer’s embrace.
the mourners came some filed past her silent frame a march of apparent curiosity rather than elegiac vigil, others, as stoic spectators sat atop the station house daring not to fly down and face their own mortality.
yesterday she had wings and soared as they from post to pole and roost today the grey angel fell and so the mourners came.
he awoke to the soft embrace of a warm breeze on his face and lay there a while, motionless lest he should the moment curse his eyes still closed he held the scene oft designed inside his dreams green valleys of a summer’s end through its pathways he would wend to her door of promised rest where his head lay upon her breast there she would gently touch his face in this endless dream’s embrace.
cat, it’s said, may look at a king and even ponder the magpie’s wing in his walk he’ll stalk the crow his tail held high, his head held low all things that move and fly and stir he’ll thread into his fabled purrs that he relates his tales upon when the tiger’s soul he dons but looking at both bird and king is likely this cat’s everything.
Indifferent and indistinct the song thrush ayrs to prayers aspire its voice hid long beyond the trees a no man’s land of brush and briar where the gods’ small treasures dwell apart from he who would be lord and here their simple lives do tell among the boughs now green and broad. Thus apart sit I and strain to hear the throstle’s hymnal to the skies and as a kiss upon my ear her song from heaven seems to fly.