Morgan Michaels


Once the sky was trouble-free-
not a beclouded birthing bed
of woes, cycling overhead
one, two then three and fourscore-fold.
poverty the soonest of these to roost
then the Dwindle, profligacy's dividend;
then purpose is lost, and friends
who laugh a spell then drift off
to share the now no more;
then better-dead dementia, at end;
for when troubles come they come in droves-
filthy birds of a feather
that never give way
but dimming the sun, hot to flock, hoot,
swoop low, graze our faces
shriek, beat their wings,
clack beaks and say
'you thought to shake us, so, but no,
sorry, we're here to stay'.

Submitted: Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Edited: Thursday, April 10, 2014

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