The Fall
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I remember
A swallow gliding across
The moon's rising shadow
That falls at the feet of my bedstead.
I look at the glow and the Raven black sky
And wonder of what's to come.
I remember.
His kind was not meant to dream—no, that gift
Was reserved for others. Not for him.
But he did dream—horribly vivid, raw
Dreams of blood and triumph and ichor.
The Fall is a feeling, not a time or place.
It is orange and brown, and the nips of wind blowing.
It's broccoli and cheese, and the rustle of leaves
