It taps against the window pane
The black beak of a grim division
Scratching till the glass is stained
A picture borne of dim revision

It cranes its head and speaks decay
The taloned feet of thin decision
With wings that shake so blood can spray
The promise of each new incision

It haunts the night, some silhouette
The phantom form of cold admission
Stalking doom in black aigrette
Like ink spilled from a pen’s submission

It calls to others, flocking banes
A storm cloud made of false ambition
Clouds of worry call the rains
And brings a dire premonition


About A. P. Christopher

I'm a cynic, a nihilist, and a pessimist. I'm a hermit filling the interior walls of my empty cavern with the words and pictures of a mind adrift in disparity. I also like lifting weights.
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