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Raven

"Teach them politics and war so their sons may study medicine and math in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music and architecture..." ---John Adams

A deep scar runs halfway across my chest

and halfway across my face, from brow to lip,

unpretty to look at, children cringe when they see me

I am the stuff of their nightmares

and for that I go concealed

so that none may see me and fear.

I walk alone, sharing company with the winds

at peace with the elements

I am content, but I’m sad.

The sadness, it sips through my hooded eyes

it is a sadness from within

for my physical scars are nothing compared to my scalded insides.

I am disillusioned by what I see

why can’t people understand

that their fellow human is a being just like them;

not a thing.

I have walked through many wars

carried the infant from the mother in a pool of red.

I have walked through desolated plains with that infant,

seeking to give it a home.

That home I am yet to find.

My eyes have dried up of tears

the iron clamps of not feeling closing in on my heart,

internally mourning

my colors have become gray

as heavy as this sadness.

You will see me silhouetted in the fading orange skies at twilight

my clothes flowing before me.

This is what I have come to be—

a shadow.

I am their conscience

they don’t wish to be reminded of their deeds

of how they made wives widows and children orphans.

These I try to look out for

when I watch the city late at night

when the people sleep;

invisible, I merge with the shades

never seen, never heard.

But then I have to retire to the fields once more

to be with the elements

where my adopted name

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Raven,

was sung and is still being sung by creation.

I am the messenger

and I will prick their conscience

breathing my message songs into the air

to be carried by the wind to them in their beds

that they may wake to look for me

and they will not find me.

But instead will find signposts and directions

to where my covers lie.

For I have undertaken a journey,

a pilgrimage to that jagged hill

to exert my soul,

re-channel my thoughts.

And when I do come down from that summit

the world will be bright,

again.

(Excerpted from “Without a Name” a collection of poems by Val .K., coming soon.)

Val .K. is a poet, and a nature lover. A collection of his poems "Without a Name" will soon be published by AuthorHouse, U.S.A. For personal contact, send mails to: leviathandepthsreturns@yahoo.com

About the Author

Val .K. is a poet and a nature lover.