The Promised Land and The Looking Glass.

Written at 1:20 AM

The wind is calling me, beckoning with
A dying yew's rotting limbs
An extirpated yew's forgotten limbs.
My Raven is perched upon that tree,
Speaking riddles to the shaking leaves,
Calling forbearance to the soft, foreboding wind
Speaking my name to this parched earth.
I hear you too, my Raven, my solace,
But I'm still attached in the soil.
Your sun burned holes into my eyes,
And I thought I was alive here, thought
I could see clearly in such
Pervading darkness.
O wind, why must you call me now
To taunt me with your pale blue skies,
Your antagonizing light?
Why is it every time I look to you
For some sort of satiety
I am only reminded of the sickness around me?
Yes, I can hear the Raven's song of mourning
Your autumn leaves who still breathe life.
I can see the beauty of the moon, shining silver
Onto the green grass of the other side.
I can feel all that I am missing here
in this dishonest maxim.
I can taste the fruits of the Promised Land,
Reach for its bewitching skies;
But as always
My hand hits glass
And I am left with nothing but a reflection
Of what the world could have been.