Lucky

The day is cold and full of vitriol

The sky here scolds with livid eyes

And in the pale morning I hear the toll

Of squawking crows that wait on high

The dead trees reach with their gray fingers

The leaves their linger on the nail

Dirty leaves so frail and meager

Their veins curl up upon themselves

And neath these dead pines lies my friend

So still and stiff among the leaves

That the hair of his coat against the winds

Stirs not one bit but clings the breeze

Alone he suffered in the dirt

Wetted earth piled on his limbs

His bones now carious, the veins now thirst

The blood now dry upon his skin

Alone he laid; how long I know not

No one there to ebb the pain

I shiver to think when his heart had stopped

And there mine breaks apart the same

I watch the ants waltz round his eyes

That, shapeless, stare up at the clouds

I watch them eat and the tears that I cry

Fall flat against the amber ground

The day is cold; in it not a sound

Save the crows that wait on high

The dead leaves shroud the friend I found

Here, curled alone against the pine