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Crows Poem


The Crows

By David Michael Jackson

The criticism struck
into him like a butter knive
through butter
he was butter itself
in the other man’s hands
so he looked out the window
and watched the blackbirds

weaving a tapestry in
the sky
They chased a hawk on the winds
swooping to bite at his body
as he tried to elude them
Caw Caw Caw they cried.
Caw Caw Caw
His eyes returned to find more criticism
in the look on the man’s face
The hawk flew steadfastly
and tried no more to evade
The crows picked and picked until
finally the hawk
faded into the sky
and the crows returned
to wait
More critisism struck home this time
“Do you understand me, Mister?”
I believe

Copyright © 1998 by David Michael Jackson, All rights reserved

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----------Art by David Michael Jackson


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