Why didn’t they tell us when we were children that when we die, we don’t become angels?
Instead, we sit in dark trees with crows eyes for feet waiting for the next call to a fleshly domain
Paint the ceiling of the wrap around porch blue so they know they can’t stay here
The whispering shadows on the walls play breathless games of ring around roses triggering the ringing in your ears
Reminding you that you’re never alone and heaven was only created so that you’d work harder for the monsters that live down the lane
who don’t give a damn if you live or die so long as there’s another body waiting in line to fill your place
I’d rather stay a crow’s eye whisper, making rooms in haint spaces