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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

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