A murder of early birds,
crows perching;
serpent slithering, swerves;
worms squirm, turning the dirt.

Working up the nerve at first,
fervently burst
from the earth,
surfacing through turf-
the birth of a person
burgeoning from
between the curtains,
occurring virginous,
nature versus nurture
emerged.

Words, verbs,
and terms heard
become verses earned;
sermons for internal clergy,
pertinent versions of our
self-virtuousness,
unfettered and perverse.

Our sterling silver
perfect sureness disturbed
by learning hurt;
mercilessly surgical,
flurry of burgundy
permeates and obscures;
wounds nursed,
suturing severed mirth
leaving nerves astir.

No longer impervious,
a servant to
this awkward burden
and absurd turbulence,
I stand sturdy and firm
but impermanent,
impureness the curse I must purge;
lurching as I traverse
the curves of this circle
in recurrent purpose, further;
trying to revert
back to where we were,
spurned by the future
in a hurried search for worth.

But tempered in
this infernal furnace, immersed,
unable to curb my thirst
when third degree burns
urgently incur worse;
such pains aplenty
and diverse,
worries certain
as fate confirms.

Afterwards a blur
of what my composure
diverted, deterred,
survived, and conquered,
but nothing left
which to refer;
just a fading dirge
and ashes filling urn.

[About how a person comes out of the world, becomes shaped by the world, and tries to shape the world themselves... and about myself in comparison.

Less commonly used words (to spare anyone having to look them up):
Mirth- amusement/joy, especially expressed through laughter.
Murder- a flock of crows.
Dirge- a funeral song; a lament for the dead, particularly used in a funeral rite.]
© Andrew Crawford