'Tis no leather weather
But I've worn mine faithfully
No one comes here when it's winter
No one but a few lone birds
Outcasts of the flock, I dare believe
No one comes here when the snow is melting
We are earthlings, fearful of a puddle or two
It's a fine circumstance, I dare say
The black inner circle of crows
Gets to peacefully gather for its proceedings
My feelings don't come either
My regrets and vengeful rage
They wait by the gate
Abandon the stage
Now that I find myself permitted
To speak, encouraged to be blunt
Called upon by the tribunal of crows
I pull out my bag and rip my vest apart
To restore my heart which I once safely stored
When one wise person told me not to
Devote it all from the start
Thus the squeaky, spooky bare bones of my fingers deliver
A mostly unharmed drum
And I can hear palms striking membranes
And fingers plucking strings, and vocal chords (not of my throat but of my being)
Letting it all out
And I hear that "all" fleeing
To their respective, misbegotten panoptical cells
Before the jailer awakens and learns of their attempted escape
I was certainly lazy, tribunal
Possibly clueless and likely unremarkable
I hid from my duty and lost
Track of the date on the calendar
Somewhere between the ticking of the clock
And each of the spoons carrying fine black death
But I was decent, Your Excellency. Decent.
I've harmed no one, Your Excellency
I revoke any curses sworn against me
Worth they are little more than the babbling of pundits on state TV
My hands are clean (metaphorically)
I was just hope-dealing in the hood, that's all
.
to many more warm sunsets down life's sacred hall
