The Birth Place

A pall gather's o'er this place...deviltry's afoot. I feel they, circling, the wolves.They do plan their great feast. Their teeth are pointed. The truth is 'dull', unsharpened, in a long while!

I pray and reconnoiter in the gray mists...thy cloak of stars, pulled up about my head. I listen to the messages of angels, in black wings.What have you, darkness?

What have you 'light'? For ye fancy 'bright things'. Take this, to the father of us all...this 'shining word' I give you.

...and, they flew!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: crows plotting, google pic