Serenity Is Its Own Remedy

Shall I not rejoice also at the abundance of the weeds whose seeds are the granary of the birds? - Thoreau

another ungrateful w***e to life

amidst another deictic rainstorm's angst and strife

black crows come for me

spreading rumors and lies

as once still waters rise

swooping and landing with wings of fate

their incessant, ear-piercing caw, caw, cawing seemingly louder as of late

walking barefoot with their wobbly, cocky gait

never shooting straight

feeling like a slithering worm in dirt

no catchy saying or clever picture on my rolled-up, soiled t-shirt

a piece of hell's crawling, bawling bait

every morning at about half past eight

squawking over nothing

pointing at me with nonexistent fingers

remembrances of their visit lingers

interred like a dead kennedy

lord, i need a remedy

Author's Note

"It would be well, perhaps, if we were to spend more of our days and nights without any obstruction between us and the celestial bodies, if the poet did not speak so much from under a roof, or the saint dwell there so long. Birds do not sing in caves, nor do doves cherish their innocence in dovecots." - Thoreau