Written in response to our prompt ‘obscure illusions’. We will be sharing a piece by someone in our community each day this week in the lead up to our Issue II announcement next week.
where crows go to bury their dead by mb
a tight jawed loon that’s what i’ll be
silently i will slink
behind the dying ugly trees
they die like a Shakespearean villain
across from the dirty river
their dusty peeling trunks
looking like they wear shoes
but its only beige mushroom caps
growing from an addict’s turd
ant trail metropolis up and down
the droopy branches bound by old cassette tape ribbon
the sugar burdens on their little thorax
weighing just as much
as the burdens on my curved shoulders
obscure illusions and esoteric lies
the native boulders akin to WCF’s face
emblazoned with red stripes and nonsense
the names of petty thief street artists
stretching down from the lived in hill
where crows go to bury their dead
dime sized nettles in my unkempt hair
will tangle with the strands in silence
and with a little time
the thorns of broken thoughts ruptured memories
will burrow even deeper
like wet mud i step into it
but quiet i will be
be silent the people have spoke
a stone chorus in space
i hear them on cold nights
they are getting colder by the way
i’ll glance beyond the conniving lights
alone out of the way and in silence
Free Verse Revolution: 
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