Raven

Were He to find in his wearisome malevolence,
the will to strip the wings from a raven,
And curse the flightless with caustic virulence,
for wanting what was taken,

What might be left, a forgotten expression?
The eyes, unsure, it saunters.
Looks not to Corvus with solemn confession,
Resigned to the field it wanders.

In the same, my pen once broken and spent,
The numbness of my heart a contagion,
My walls grew thick, my mind intent,
A censure upon my soul, engraven

But the Raven it runs,
and it leaps,
and it climbs
Every tree, or stalk, a gym.
Toward Corvus is searches,
and it seeks,
and it finds,
A raven won't be embittered by a whim.