I am in a cell without windows,
by Heath Harrington
lined with black feathered walls.
Soft breezes in the milky darkness
Caress the hairs along my body.
Its a box filled with agitated ravens,
their beating wings pass my
skin with brushing touches.
They are silent and stay in
shadows, but move with one body.
I know they exist by the movement
of the air and the hundreds of eyes
stare like polished onyx.
The stench is overwhelming,
causing burning tears that flow freely
down my dry cracked skin. The smell of dead hopes and slain
dreams permeates this place. Gorge rises in my throat
and ends on the floor.
I flail towards the wall catching whispers of feathers
flitting through fingers. They don't want be touched
I hit cold stone bricks,
in my prison of thought.
The black feathered walls live and breath
the poison of indifference.