Clipped

We are callused crows

Perched upon our words like telephone wire

Yea we have company..

But we all sing the blues

We are in a race with the junkyard for we go

south for the winter

north for the summer

and in between we hum the saddest songs..

We shed our lead feathers

In midnight parking lots and splintered benches

and sometimes

Sometimes we dream.

Our life in fast forward consists of 

Flickering strobe lights of streetlights

Midnight train traveled street fights

And we become tired

   And our wings grow heavy

 Until eventually

   

We don't feel like flying anymore