Waiting For It

Death is not to be feared
But rather welcomed
It is always near
And I am done
This world has drained me
Pulling life from my core
It has rained upon me
I cannot take any more
Farewell

Raven Flying Over Stones

The raven flew above the stones
Set into place by ancient men
Long ago
To mark their holy ground
To place a monument
To remember
Not a sound in the area
A testament to the reverence
A solitary existence
Of a sanctuary
For the memories
Of the lost
Ancient tribes of men
Forgotten but for the stones
Never appearing again
Over the green horizon
But the stones remain

He Paid For Wanting Freedom

Ravens stood upon the cross bar
As others circled above
A slave who’d led revolt
Was crucified as a message
To others who’d see
And know
That their lives
Were only worth
What their masters had paid
No matter what they’d paid
Whatever the talents
Whatever the dreams
A slave was property
And could not be allowed
To become independent
To become proud
And however many
Would have to be slain
Slaves had no value, except up front
When the auction ended
And money changed hands
The slave was bound
By law
By the code
To obey
Or die
As the tortured soul
Upon the cross knew
Surrounded by ravens
He’d paid the toll
For desiring freedom
And hope
For a future
Instead of being
Controlled

A Raven Flies Towards Glastonbury Tor

A raven flies quickly
Adjacent to a storm
That gathers, so darkly
Over Glastonbury Tor
The site where Arthur was laid
Next to Gwenifar
His queen in death
Lover in life
They sleep still
Though hidden elsewhere
For the day when
Arthur will breathe
Air born
Of Albion’s sky
The raven knows
To go to the Abbey
Standing in memory
Upon a hill
Covered in mist
So beautiful
Looking like an island
That some called
Avalon

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Watched

We are watched
We have always been
Whether perched upon a branch
Standing atop walls or flying over head



Amazed at the things humans crave
Awed by our abject disrespect towards others
They watch



They watched as we unintentionally dug
Our own shallow graves
With our own callow misdeeds
That led us to our deaths
Our vacant lives and empty dreams
Did not save us from our selves
They watch with intensity
As we burn upon our own pyre
Smoke and ash rising
They are ever waiting
Ever watching
As we plead
To be released
From the prison of our flesh
The horrible knowledge we possess
Of the wickedness of our being
We will never wake
From the gray lands
Once we begin to sleep
Once we begin to sleep

Winter castle with Ravens

In the coldest, driest winter
A castle stands so bleak
With blustery winds lifting
Plumes of snow and ice
And passing ravens
The people of the castle are huddled within
Sitting and warming before the fires
They wait for the enemy to invade
But who would leave a warm place
For this frozen outpost of a shire
But they fear the invaders coming again
So the sentries stare out from the towers
Hiding behind the battlements from the wind
Praying to their many Gods
To be delivered from this place
Before they begin to cower
The cold leads to despairing
The ice and snow bite the skin
And the waiting drives them mad
When march the vulgar clans
Their skin covered drums begin

This is England

Whether arch villain possessed of anger
Or anti Christ has ascended to threaten
Black bright, loud, avian messengers
Calling, telling, empowering
Alert us to the Crusade ahead
England shall never fall to foreign invader
So long as there dwells ravens at the Tower
Powerful emissaries of life
Bringers of the portents of death
We must not ignore them
Or our flesh and lands will die
Rising from our decay
The Ravens call upon us to live
Bringing wisdom from the ancient days
Telling us to be humble, telling us to be great
For they are gifted with sight given by the Gods
We are heroes fighting the tide of Saxons
We are common folk
Joined in desperation in the evening hour
Rising to defend our country from the Blitz
With little more than flesh and sweat and hands
We are England, and the Ravens are in the Tower
For now, and ever, this is our land

Above the carnage and pyres

(It might be a scientific fact that Ravens do not fly in darkness, but I was imagining when I wrote this a moment when the battle is done and all that remains are the Ravens aloft watching, and perhaps the moment is unusual, and the Ravens are so enraptured that they do not realize the darkness of night. So if it bothers you to think of them doing what they might not do, then think of it as fiction, which of course, it is.)