Obsession: Raven’s Milk

Double clicking. Pecking at the keyboard. Automaton of attention. Solely directed towards you—a word, an imagined lover, friend, a foreign country, an image, a myth. Repeat. Repeat. Search. Search. Still intensity lingers until frustration mounts like boiling milk. Given enough air, the milk lies flat and slowly becomes putrid and rancid. Reflection brings frustration of wasted time of an unrelieved reception. Unmet expectation reeks of expired cream. Obsession a highway of continuous -gasm fades into a horizon of ravens.

A plume of black soaked in unmet expectations. Beak scratched. Talons taken. Feebly lies the body of the bird once majestic. Entangled in wires of obsession. Squaks speak of silenced desire as night sneaks upon the wounded soul. Nearby those untouched fly with freedom. The branches bleed green in moonlight as the weight of the free break the fragile covers of the forest. Moonlight paths trace the stars grace to a pond of milk, a pool of night’s orgasm. Glistening feathers moving muteless and weightless through brisk bright darkness close and glide to shore. Startled to see such murkiness, distorted reflection frustrates free soul who attacks blurred self.