By John David Wolverton
I am but fruit
to the Crows of Misfortune
that hunt on jeering wing.
My prayers cannot fell them,
nor drive them afar,
their dark forms swarm above me
with reaping hook frowns
purple tongues writhing
with caustic derision.
Yet I am beyond them
when I shelter within,
nurturing,
as a seed takes life,
from the flames at its heart.
I'll leave no footprints fleeing,
in the dust of your hard earth.
But in the shadows of netherwhere,
where the heart only sees,
I'll mend myself
in a secret fire.
John David Wolverton