somewhere crows are hovering
over heads filled with
straw and a summer's sun is
melting the reverie of power
i have been storing
in hibernation.

you wake me with reminiscent whispers
and i am plucking feathers to
protect me from the fall:
these rags won't do the trick (for I've been told those birds
are bold) so once again
the scarecrow changes
emporer's clothes.

the loyalty of your
sin is enough to draw me
in and all the while
the crows are hovering

from the journal of misstwitch