How can I bear the golden wing?
It's sheet hung low and so dreamy, above my head it lay.
Merely an audible faint whisper.
It's taste as tasteless as the winter's wind.
The sun hasn't risen in years,
Yet more darkness will be speared.
My aging bones and saggy flesh
Although healthy and still best,
Will wilt under the guilt I've built.
The time goes by with not a care why--at least in your own mind.
The crime a real prime, dimmed until due time.
The crows cloaked with gloat.
The lambs ram in sham, crushed into cram jam!
Mashed into the same frame.
Mushed into the same name.
Smashed into the same mane.
And yet, they are unaware of the glares of the crows,
Perched atop of a fig tree with a scroll.
Distributing unfairly the shares of the spare leaves with the lambs,
Keeping all the fruit for themselves.
The crows have eaten the eyes of the lambs.
'Course the lambs did not beware for they did not care:
"The crows were golden and we are like a waste bin, filled with phlegm to the brim.
The crows are our shining gem; we are too grim for them.
The sun need not come, the light was already from the golden feathers that flung."
