The trouble with owls and thunderA Poem by Tim Lion1 We met in another time. For aeons, our minds
were bent to the will of relentless beast gods. We became brothers. Nobody understood the tie until it
was temporaily cut. The dogfight that ensued was like methanol screams through a wildfire
bullhorn. The devil asked us to move on. Said we were too much trouble. 2 When the ashes were all swept up, we rejoined
forces and moved to the wilderness. We made a deal to trade a white-faced owl jars
of our homemade meanness for mouthfuls of whatever thunder he could steal from
the behind the greyer clouds. 3 The collection grew quickly. When we
finally realized that old owl was just another beast-god who’d tricked us into
doing his evil bidding, we drank the entire lake for spite. It killed us both
for a few days, but upon waking, we knew we were cosmically fucked. Nothing
sadder than two pissed off owls squawking heart-pains from a tiny wire cage as an
old white-faced man feeds them thawed mice and giggles quaint hatred from
unfamiliar lips. 4 Even if anybody notices we’re gone, there’ll be no bodies found, no saviors to reach out to, no hope for redemption. Every beautiful dream finds a logical brick wall to bust its head against. That's the trouble with owls and thunder: they're both too loud to understand, and too hidden to trust. © 2011 Tim LionFeatured Review
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Added on August 12, 2011Last Updated on August 12, 2011 |

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