A murder on my mind,
of sassy crows
and silky ravens
drifting in on fresh autumn wind,
a cacophony of caws
and affect.
I spoke of them to you,
certain you had brought them with you
like some confusing charnel house-warming gift,
change on the way
something, maybe many things
dying to make way
as I waited with Christmas-eve anticipation
to see what would be carrion and
what would carry on,
whose bloody blouse Morrigan
would wring out in the river of faithless time.
When you were gone, and then still gone,
I knew the winged mourners had not come with you,
but for you,
and I wondered if it would ever be possible
to forget what I had never known

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