Hollow (A Dead Poem)

Still falls the rain

A veil of black extolls darkened trees, which 
Broken by some unseen hatred, shed their tired leaves
And bend their boughs ever towards a ravenous earth of severed angel wings

Among the soil, seeds bleed forth before gesticulating death
And young foxes, born dead into traps, lay unmoved
As though guarding the silence that surrounds
And threatens to envelop all those that would listen

Mute crows, grown tired of repeating yesterday's atrocities
Huddle together in dark recess, sight of the dead removed
Black duckling floats capsized in a small pool in the hollow
And from this pool emerges faint yet tempting mist
That follows upward knowingly to caress the chipped fingers
Of some headless martyr's statue whose only achievement was to die soon
And who could not wait to fail

The iris of darkness forms fully and the long night begins
Yet still, by the hollow a young man waits for his love
Unseeing he believes himself unseen, he smiles
At the distant tolling of some bell, and the still falling rain


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