Fridge Poetry 8 - Crow flight

As the crow soars, so do I,

shuddering at my nights of drinking doubles

and ringing up hell from here to the moon;

a young-heart with a cold soul,

his whisper holding thunder’s grace

and his spirit full of imagination without measure.

Raw, wild will beaming

with my shadow tinged by a thousand lives.

Heaven unknown to an ugly man.

Distance was my only friend.

Brilliant darkness between worlds.

To the sun I would fly to find peace,

and would come to know only miserable confusion.

Now,

older and in mourning,

I know the truth is I’m afraid

of winter and goodbye and the falling sky.