alone amongst a murder

[VALE]

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graphic gore ★ genderfluid ★ 3-eyed crow

Not a stone’s throw away from the railroad, a murder of crows settled into a large tree. The little flying devils cleared the space of dangers, like snakes and larger parrots, cawing and strutting over the branches. The tropics proved a better place than the chilly islands up north, but not all of the murder flew here with Vale.

The three-eyed crow, lost in a sea amongst many, chittered to verself. Reciting poetry, mostly, of Edgar Allen Poe, Carl Sandburg, and other depressing sorts.

To remember what you would rather forget… this is difficult. It is far easier to remember art which touches the parts of you hidden away, gorge yourself on the elicited feelings, and stew upon the “hidden meanings” the artist intended you to find. For what is art if not communication? And you must communicate, you think, between the parts of yourself lost to time (buried, so deeply, until you think there is only lingering pathways burned into the brain from the ghostly touch of harsher truths…) and the parts which remain.

As Vale pondered, weak and weary, over this often visited drop of lore, Alone by Carl Sandburg tapped quite gently until it rapped against vis skull.

Straightening up, the three-eyed crow cawed and beat vis wings. Fluttering to a higher branch, then another, the crow pointed vis beak at the rising moon in the noonday sky. CAW, ve screached, one last wordless proclamation before ve recited the poem from memory.

Naked I stood on the soft shingle of sand where the sea
    swept my legs with salt and wet.
Alone I walked under the arch of night where the stars
    fluttered between treetops in the wind
And a long memory it is I have how the sea and the night
    were kind

The crows Vale surrounded verself with did not particularly understand, feral as they were in mind and body, but they CAWED in solidarity. Their voices punctuated the silence where Sandburg intentionally dropped that silly syntax off. They cawed, and Vale recited.

Vale finished with a mocking sort of half-bow, recited from memory like the poem itself, without understanding the meaning. Or. Perhaps? Perhaps Vale understood too much, and simply chose to plead ignorance. In an unsane world, could anyone fault the sanest for feinting insanity to fit in with all the rest?

YOU NEVER TRUSTED ME ★
BUT I’M OVER IT NOW
[sub][W]isker[/sub]