Crow

My mind is a crow;
I recognize the shine
and depth of black.
Yet I also feel the refined,

narrow beak and sleek sharp feather
upon feather.
My potential recycles
and re-diseases my veins

while thick flesh
makes this life a slow motion study.
My head is full of tiny vampire's:
I survive on dark things.

The society that says I'm dark
only uses six words.
Let me live up to my Vampire.
I will love too deep and too wild

in forgotten crevices
man is too immortal to fill.
Behind my eyes, between these ears
lyes a pure black sea.

The satin skirt I wear
ripples free
like oceans under the moon.
Sometimes sailors come

still and composed.
They leave the water to cross into
chalky borders I used to lie.
With each visitor that approaches

as a child,
I can remember lampshades, Orchids,
cathedrals, love I gave once.
Whatever light I used to know.

I remember names, just being names,
and men were just men,
as beautiful he soared,
as deep his dissension.





Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1035 times
Written on 2009-08-03 at 19:13

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Brian Oarr
I'm not a fan of this genre of poetry, but got to give credit where it's due ... this piece is very well written and portrays the verbal skills of the poet to be quite strong. On a day when the board is replete with less than stimulating poetry, it was a welcome breath of fresh air to come upon this well written poem. Excellent metaphor, poet!
2009-08-03