Crafted my grave from words again
A friendship for the fallow field
Ravens pick over my cast bones
Fortune reads, “not well”
Which to believe
I’ve laid my body down
Cast my die
Played my hand
All is not well
But
Tomorrow I will rise again
Turn my back to the field
And see where walking wills me
Whether a fresh grave
Or a tired life
I choose
To rise again
Pick a path
March my ragged body North
West
Ill Decision
AbyKittiwake 