CLOCKWORK CROWS

Since the dawn of existence the clock has kept perfect time
:Forgotten time

Nothing is counted anymore; the years have reset themselves
The corner of this space faces the wall
It is here that he writes it all down
:Forgotten history

No one remembers; the hours have been erased
and the hype of a sorrowful tale is buried beneath the ashes
Tarnished, unsolved and ruined

This ability comes from the misfortune
of living a crooked life; all tipped at one end of the scale
Endless thought spills from this splintered pen
Telling the truth of  time is easy on borrowed paper
So easy when you have lived every word you write

No real notion of his own is present; a recounting of absent events
They are scraped from the floors of his unjustified mind
and assembled on the pages in fluorescent detail
like junkyard clockwork

Crows live here too, in solitary nests of electrical wire
and purchased sin; spectators of war and strife
A sideways slant tells them all they can bear to believe
They dictate the rest of the story:

A tale of injustice, wide eyes trapped in bird cages
for others to peck at through wooden bars
(hinged with salvaged copper); dismissed from reality
The brass work is polished regularly; it's a dusty existence
and a long one; consigned to oblivion

The distillery is no longer used for the production of pleasure
Just survival; in water beads, one slow teardrop at a time
Raven wings and wretched canvas are the only decoration here
They flap in unison sometimes; when the winds are right

Loneliness works amongst the patchwork metal
Crafting the blank documents of an innocent man's soul
It will rain when I die, he mutters, as the needle is stabbed into the leather
and then into skin, the process of binding a new book is painful and necessary
The stolen parchment is worked carefully into an organised form

It is a righteous cause, and so, a strong one
A man who thinks he is right, should always win
But the brawl is thrashed out in forgotten ages
A vortex of futility,
that only the guilty can accept
and the heartstrong will fight for

Degrees of criminal intent are spread upon rusted tables
and resounded upon whitewashed walls
Judgement comes from those who have not lived,
nor breathed
... nor cared.


SRWB 2010