Pen in Motion

Another poem from my class…

He turns,

wrapped in the wings

of a thousand crows –

angry, desolate,

and black as jagged onyx stones.

He is not Death,

even with those gaunt eyes

and sunken cheeks –

skin that used to know

what it felt like to have pigment.

And those fingers –

brittle and warped,

but still strong enough to strangle

hopes

             dreams

                             ambitions

                                                   futures.

Not quite Death –

Regret.