The landscape

has turned into a carpet of crows,

winter desperate.

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.



6 thoughts on “Obsidian

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