Thought often makes a black bird of me,
Leaves me perched on the storm clouds\' gray.
Claws scraped into a watch post on rotten wood
Abandoned by termites left for lichen to exude.
Flea ridden wings twitch irritably to conceive
Finding no cause for flight or reason; no drive
To do, just to watch the shadows cavort about
By the fires of intent or deriving thought,
Undulating on the dirt, making monstrosities
Of branches and tree trunks before black skies.
Even the vengeful desire to join the eagle in abuse
On the mountainside on the innards of Prometheus
Is an untapped and muted humor. Umbral caws
From the distance leave me presiding subdued.