On my daily run to the store
i passed a squirrel
gasping, kicking, convulsing -
not able to shake off the epileptic seizure
gripping its heart (or mine)
On returning home, with the usual
fare, the sunset's light silvered the
mourning dress of the crow. His fountain
pen drawing the bloody ink -
from the fragile carcass by the side of the road.
For a second i stilled my breath,
driving on, unable to stand death.
I guess this is not quite the appropriate poem for the start of the new year, but i'm not in a great mood. I wrote this poem as a melodramatic freshman in college. I forget which poet i was trying to copy. I always sucked at poetry.
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