The Stag

An ebony stag saunters through the woods,

Head hung low as it speaks. It gives names,

Many names. Some you know, others you don’t.

It doesn’t stop to take a breath nor look around,

Thick smoke billowing from its mouth and carrying in the wind.

A crow calls in the distance, “COLLECT YOUR DEAD.”

Pick a name, maybe it’ll mean something now that you don’t hear it anymore.

 

People slip through your fingers swifter than sand,

Here and gone, doors opening and closing.

You see the cards in the magician’s hands and then his palms are empty.

It’s so quick, how magic becomes sleight of hand.

You never feel the transition till the childhood wonder is gone

And you’re left staring into caskets full of people too young to die.

It happens. It shouldn’t, but it does.

 

Sharp antlers dig into tree trunks,

Carving names the stag doesn’t have time to say.

The smoke chokes the branches above and they begin to fall,

Causing the crow to fly away -- still calling for you to collect what isn’t yours.

The magician demands your attention while deftly dodging debris,

Sand pooling at your feet as coffin-shaped branches pour down on you.

Doors to broken houses open and close in the wind, and a name 

Similar to yours is encapsulated in tree sap. The stag carves on.

Reviews

[Eli Lugo]

This is striking
You have a good way with your words