These Funeral Birds Are Patient

Each knife in the drawer is steady.

The river's doors are always open,

ready to receive new bodies.

The gun takes a nap in the backyard,

quietly buried.

​

Some of my days are spent in

an attempt to stave away

the suggestive shapes in my head:

each an image of me, only dead.

​

But other times aren’t so bad, in truth.

Some days are more silent.

The seductive voices of the knives,

the river, the pistol, the pills

are lulled and go quiet.

Their collective malignance

turns soft and feathery,

and their dark impressions

linger only in my periphery.

​

Like crows with feathers

made of shadows,

the sinister thoughts

sit in decided rows,

aptly perched overhead.

They do well to leave me alone,

existing as no more than

ominous brushstrokes

at the edge of my awareness.

Their eyes are cold as silver coins,

and their only concern

is to observe me roam

the streets below.

​

They see me discreetly sift in and out

the doors of different hospital buildings.

They spy me through my bedroom window

drinking a glass of water, downing new meds,

or a ramped-up dose of old antidepressants.

They spot me at a party acting as if I belong,

doing my best not to get out of hand,

paring my personality down

until it's nearly presentable

so that all my friends can stand

the prospect of me being around.

They eye my advance up the career ladder

and how I use my bloodied nails

to scratch my name into each rung.

So that when all is said and done,

no one can deny that

I tried my best to make it far.

They watch me wake

the next morning,

like a boy gone insane,

ready to do it all again.

​

I think they know that I am only stalling.

And I am sure these birds of death have

witnessed the likes of me before:

A fading side character who

dreams he is something more.

The kind who stumbles through an

unintuitive script, then rudely falls.

The type of boy who gets back up,

brushes the pain away,

and at the start of each day

finds the courage to tell himself

at least one compliment

in the mirror’s bored gaze.

​

Somewhere in their cunning

skulls, these crows sense who in

the crowd won’t make it.

Maybe they know the

vulnerable ones like me,

we always come around.

They know one day I might not

be able to wrestle my fate.

These funeral birds are patient.

With entertained gazes, they wait.

​

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