Graveyard Turf Wars: A Poem in Three Parts

A Murder Moon reflected
in the Crows’ Eyes,
red mist swirling beneath
beating wings.

The Raven’s parliament
perched, watching,


Ravens’ watch from
suicide trees shrouded
in bloody mist.

The Murder caws,
all the black wings
battering frosty air.
Graveyard turf wars.


Ravens’ posture,
Crows’ front,
to a gravestone gallery.

Rooks above,
perched on a crumbling wall,
wonder which pawn will fall.


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Always remember Poetry isn’t a Choice.

Also, I’m still working on my Passion Project, my Poetry collection, In Media Rêves. Check out my GoFundMe and contribute if you would like.


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