In the Darkest Hour Poem by Sibila Petlevski

Meadows, acres of meadows and gravitational fields.
Crushed to death with hundreds of my own shields,
Unarmed, stark naked like a slug, buried on a rock,
I escaped myself eventually, turned the key in the lock.

In the darkest hour, just before the dawn, like that Robin
Redbreast who picked the blood dyed thorn, I have to choose
a way to be reborn. My pulse is playing fast and loose
with me; the quiet engine in my veins still throbbing.

I eat live send, no longer search for footing.
Much like a pigeon - a piece of clay for shooting,
I gorge on earth, sniff mud; I fly on fumes

and let the winged form my breath assumes
take off your jaded palate that tells but deadly lies.
Snatch your own body, then anatomize!