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A Murder of Crows
By Ruth Calder Murphy (Arciemme)
My breath
does the dance of death
on frosty air,
cools
like the corpse of Summer there
and drifts,
melancholy,
to nothing.
A murder of crows
cooks scandal in skeletal trees
and dusk sulks on the chilly breeze,
stealing sight
and bringing black night
on the back of ghostly grey.
I bury my breath
and say a heartfelt “Kyrie”
that slides along the sharp edge
of the scythe
and turns to ice.
Stars sparkle in frost at my feet
and in the atramentous heights,
shine bright,
light years away and growing old.
When did fire become so cold?
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