Raven Breath
Raven breath
By moon light, were did the raven weep, were did it’s blood stained feathers fall. trail to dark haven, were no man has time to smile. It will indeed take a while for any breath to not frost, for any heart to beat warmly. Slowly the reality weaves, like the spider’s dewy doilies that drift and flow with the heavy night air.
Kindled in low winter lighting, so that no color is seen, the reaching long curling figures of the dark watery faces that live through the pale care of the winds' whip...that brings drips of starry tears, and the shad of doubt cultivates many spiraling threads of fears. Reaping what is sewn is the unveiling of a deceiver’s chortled words and gnarled strands of figures that nudge like fat leaches on back side ones neck. Mirth is only the last echo of the choked call, if your hands are stained with the raven’s dripping liquid of breath.
Standing mountains are like the breaks to what can be defined... if you call them less in a gritty jealousy, then what can be gained from your brash hand would be like a waste land compared to a forest that ridges the sides of the hills...
The gain and future is what you sew into your flesh, what threads and spool from which you take will forever make crest upon your path. Let the patterns be that of peace and greatness and not that of malice, as the knots chock out any hope.
-summer downs
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