I used to howl at the moon

but when I listened just now

it was screamed obscenities

or were they addressed

to the cream-colored spade

I used to dig this black hole?

An old tree whispers in the breeze

but tells no secrets

simply hisses its sympathy

as I bow to the wind of the world

trying not to break

lest all of my beliefs

forsake me (now that I need them)

in my hour of grief.

I used to laugh with the birds

but when I listened just now

it was absurd derision

a jealousy of the freedom

to wing away from

nests that bleed and fall.

A wise owl tutors from the bough

but gives no answers

merely voices an opinion

as I dance a funeral march

stepping on the shells

of eggs that hatched in the dark

as hell shows its grimace:

hieroglyphics in the bark.