you have no song
the moon has not written

you steal them in the silver haze of twilight
fighting hard to keep from being swallowed
by dark forest and beckoning fern

snatching words and phrases by the tail
as you fly from branch to broken
in a black ribbon melody of midnight

an owl in the pines smiles at your attempts
to scribble scrabble puzzle out each line
with dissonance and hollow heart echoes

into a ransom note of bittersweet cacophony
hoping only that one star will listen
all the while knowing it will come to rest

in the cached out core of a long dead oak
with shiny bits of treasure you collect at dawn
and offer up as sacrifice to a beacon

that will never shine the light of beauty
on your coal-flavored eye or add the flair
of accessory to your brittle silhouette

but no matter no matter
you mourn you caw
you fly

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the moon has not written”

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