Upon the Eaves
Upon the eaves, tomorrow's eve,
Unfolding sorrow takes its leave,
In cresting night's arresting heart,
Protesting craven flight departs.
A raven flits from hope to hail,
Sweet remembered desolation,
When dissolute and dainty fare,
Fell to barren expectation.
In darkness cloaked, how Cotard's coat,
Devours the starlight years afloat,
Scudding clouds defacing sketches,
Heaven's poor prophetic etches.
Uplifted brief in cruciform,
Against the Scales my spirit stalls,
Then glancing upon Scorpio,
Long hours are lost in empty halls.
Upon the eaves, on morrow's eve,
Now sorrow folds within with ease,
The anonymity of night,
Fading with calamitous light,
In bloody shards encroaching dawn,
Acclaimed in song, acclaimed in song.
This silent raven worships naught,
But silhouette and shadow long.
A plumage ruffling teasing wind,
Whispers, 'In preening pride you've sinned',
My posture hunched, I contemplate,
The tides of light upon the gate,
And they who spy, in shining eye,
The embers of a faltering fire,
See but November's fallen leaves,
Reflected death yet nothing higher.
Upon the eaves, autumnal air,
Dispassionately bears despair,
A cry of kraa, a beat, and kraa,
A call to arms for the bourgeois,
Which falls unheard upon the ears,
Of smothered life, as do the sounds,
Of feathers rustled crisp as silk,
And ebbing nature's leaf on ground.
The sun ascendant, cold and veiled,
Her beauty waxing so concealed,
Draws weary wings with creaking grace,
Far lifting me to kiss her face,
To find her faint remembered warmth,
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poem by Robert Kane
Added by Poetry Lover
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