The Crows
Olivia Meyer
I can hear them clearer now
gargling the syllables of
my name
they sing softer
on clouded afternoons
but
It doesn’t change the way the heather grows
gnarled and perfect
or how the clouds feel sad
passing by this moment too quickly
as the wind urges the orders
to push them forward
this world is for me
for the dreamers
stuck in sweat soiled shirts
laboring for each new day
it is a gift
to not be out of place
like a skyscraper sitting
in a lake
water etching small lines into glass
business men drowning
without want for air
–not a second glance behind
May they hear
only echoes
of their
own thoughts,
Stuck