And The Black Scythe With Its Beak of Ibis
by Martine Morillon-Carreau
And the black scythe
with its beak of ibis
I live in
a scream in the memory
No
It was yet
even so
in the ears
A bent broken hoot
so so long to the moon or death
howling
And
like learning
this one
Stop
I say
to myself
But then
Stop
it’s coming
yes
going out
whistling
piercing out
of chest
heart
and farther
bottom of ages
a hole in the belly the guts
all
this found
crossed out screwed up throw away
I
– this read must not paper
and then us
betraying hating love –
haunt
live in a scream
nothing else but
presently
letting filter letting escape
braid with black the white flight
wings to glint
a light toward a peak
and smooth
up to the sky
blue ripples on water
End of the poem
15 random poems
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Quant.com – a search engine from France, and also an alternative, at least for Europe
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