has turned into a carpet of crows,
Then, there are your eyes.
Obsidian, but bright,
gleaming like a cotton field in the night.
as bereft as any corn farmer sowing drought.
The eyes scan the banks of a river
that is jumbled with the verdancy
of jungle plants
green enough to stir the memory
of once ripe fields.
Eyes like carbon
stare and see beyond
a velvet-lined box
kissing the notes of sorrow
last sealed upon your lips.