Veiled Minions

Shards of rag hanging
Torn from the reapers cloak
Tattered and blowing upon dead branches
I wearily cross underneath
Far below definition
Whilst dark eyes follow
My silent steppings
Glaring down obsidian bills
The tree erupts
A formless black detonation
Of ravens wailing their curses
At my approach
For disturbing their ritual of dusk

Reviews

[Emma Joy]

Those unmentionable creatures fill the sky with that flapping, crackling black dread; they soar and noise into what would be pure space, whether sun or moon lit, and create a moving hell under which the walker suffers whatever.

For some reason i think of a black poisonous cloud engulfing the writer, no escape, tis a terrible thought.

[j]

this is too dark when the sun lays shadows at my feet that seem to conjoin with yours if only when the sun and moon pass in tumbling yen .......

damn ravens know for naught -- they are but harbingers. we demonize those cold, beadie eyes as seeing into a future to which we are blind. bah i say.

here. i've a hand for taking that leads along a history of a warmth of the sun, a knowing you are here. period. and maybe oceans are not so distant after all.

[writing mojo]

death comes in many forms and this one is by far, far is from a dark realm, an eclipse soul, when the sun breaks even with the moon at dawn,
speaking of a gray heaven hosts
in betrayal of light and life finally dieing out..amazing stuff

[....]

I like this it is simple and and wonderful.