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The crow children glide through through banana fields seeking...cackling at their own judgement of worth. Sparrow child, filter through the scare-bitches and though dressed in an opinion of self that's as popular as it is terrifying, embrace. Embrace both the Samaritan and the Devil, and fine each in the other. Scale the bent backs of those who are laden and burdened with the pettiness they have donned at will. They hate, but I laugh. Shrill crow's song screeching like the last cries of the dying. They hang me here amongst their mocking selves: my arms outstretched, my feet gone - the dead leg stumps brittle. I am the scare bitch they make me. Those pathetic wretches nailed me here with nine inch insecurities and I bleed brittle blood. Still, I beam - face scared into a smile by vile stitching, grinning insanely at the warm sun as they come and peck at my chest and mock me. The crow children never lie North for they find springtime in my desert, and even when the bananas have soured and browned, they stay, and nail sparrows to crosses. But never will their sweet song compare to the sweet, gleeful chittering of the condemned, for the spirit of the meek flies freely, and soars higher than any bird, and it is only the beauty of this spirit that dresses the crow in blackened fury. Fear not little crow child, nuzzling into the warm nest of insecurity they've made for you, for stranger things have happened than a crow shedding his troubleridden feathers. Fear not the grimacing scare-bitches, that loom like Death in the distance. They too are victims, and only you may set them free. So dust off the foolishness from your wings and soar, and sing with your new beautiful voice, and fly with new freedom. Beautiful saviour sparrow child... why do you hide so beneath the darkness? * * * * * * * Those empty souls with their torn feet are born of the paranoid child: Drain the sun of it's sinlessness and engrave it with the mark of your angst. Burn me with your infernal tongue! Breathe the vinegar tears: soldier boy, put your feather on; you grate my confidence away. Contrary... Sweet roses, sweet roses; they come for your smile: Mother you eternally within their loving petals and wilt into you. My mind cannot take the collapse. Your temples are as unstable as your Gods. * * * * * * * nosferata, 1997
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