Who is she but the ragamuffin?
Sitting by the edge of day and staring into tomorrow,
Where the lines of birds flutter into sentences and each feather a single word spiraling down in angles-
She is a dirty young child in torn clothing.

She is a guttersnipe with no pen, no achievement,
Just the sssha ssha, sssha ssha of the flirting wind,
Leaving her without the shape of a name or the skin of a sound…

Or is she not herself by the dream of another?
An idea bound by bones and ligaments,
A puppet, lacking the very essence-
Of originality and strength.

Glued to the concrete beside the grey paved road,
She waits, eyes closed through sandstorms and seas-
Waiting, just fading like that fickle fragment of consciousness buried in the mind.

Sitting by the edge of day and staring into tomorrow,
This sad hollow creature;
She is blown away by ashes.

-re-edited 04.11.06 but is still not satisfied with it.

Writer, writer, your pen grows weak-
It’s dripping dreams, and shadows, and faded ink.

I know, she says.
I tried to catch them once, hand cupped
Hesitating-
But they slip through between fingers,
Every single petal-
Leaking down like water in a snail shell full of holes...
So I let the pen fall,
Watch it hit the ground and dissolve in a stray strand of wind-

And then she smiled,
Lost tired brown in lost tired eyes,
Lifting up word stained hands that trembled beneath weak lights.

I tried, I tried to stop, she says.
I’ve put my heart in a bottle sealed with smoke and wax
And put that bottle labeled hope in a chest full of rats-
But it’s no use…

And she sighs,
Pupils searching for stars in the white painted ceiling-

Dreamer, dream, your songs have gone bitter,
They’re pooling in puddles, and teacups, and rivers.

I know, I know! She says and shivers,
Sits huddled beside the gutter with chin resting on knees...
And the world freezes-
For three seconds she is just another girl on the street,
But when the rain comes
Only a fistful of feathers hang in the air.

Her name is Crow.