The Dying of the White-Tailed Magpie
There was no wind, but the leaves on the old Ash tree trembled, Submissively, to unseen strings as it were, Yet knowingly, as though they were all a part of, The Dying of the white-tailed Magpie. The plunder is vile yet holy, A disfigurement, a dismemberment, A pillion rider on the chariot of Time, Both a consecration and blasphemy of Life. Our acquiescence is a meek resignation, A forced harmony between the larcenist And the pillaged, besotted with Life everlasting, And bludgeoned bloody by Time’s hegemony. 'The end shall be a release, a quietus, an escape,' The Ventriloquist hisses, diabolical, through the ages, But I maintain that tyranny is the choice to remain In ignorance of the cruelty of one’s ways. There was no wind, the sky overcast, The world made an unwilling spectator of the massacre Of a thousand moments and a hundred more, Of the life lost on the dying white-tailed Magpie. A white streak, a thud, the last r...
