The change we call death,
But a carrot
Solaces the sorrell
Who may as well be a chestnut
(Only the sun knows for sure)
But the gypsy unicorn wants out,
Hooves stamp like an out-of-sync procession,
The gray mare stares with swollen fly eyes,
The Friesian pulls out hay from a hairnet
Solemnly, not like when he went crazy
During the solar flares.
Only the crows seem unfazed.
They've stared down death so many times
It's like a game to them
Where the shiny object always wins,
The shadow too vast to be seen
Except in the darkness of eyes,
Where it isn't seen at all
As much as we convince ourselves
We empathize.
Downtown now
They're horse trading jockeyed positions
And rebrands of ranch hand overseers
Based on feel, and the empty stalls
Where the vanished ones were will fill
Again with hope what had to be blown up
Yet again -- nobody knows what will happen
When its only eyes on the other side of the cage.
There will be time to bear your grudges
Toward the living. It's the dead who must
Let go their grip, for it's almost unbearable
But the only way that loneliness takes,
The one stick that ignites the rages of regret
At life not lived, the anguish at things not said.
The company only cares to keep the caravan
In motion -- the harvest is for the living;
If they waited for the dead
They'd have thrown it all away already,
What the sun almost convinces us
We'd earned.
The crows are loud and alive
To correct us of our vibe, our longing
For what we only get to see from behind
And remind us there are games more practical
To waste time on, our gulp for air
When a chipmunk could be there instead.
One sits on the tallest tree,
Reminding me its prophecy is always free.
