Cumbersome is this town,
Moored by narrow minds.
Uproars within dimly lit pub,
Save those grounded by old routine.
Behind the glass that's flawed,
Womanly preteen extends to press,
Chapped hands to alert hope heralding.
Sharp caws and coos too intense,
The flap of opposing side slices deep.
This raven to grimace at death's grip,
Slow, fragile, and sporadic are breaths.
Mournful, this heap,
So still yet flexing,
White dove's wings to sign,
An embodiment still alive.