#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook fen prologue

Raven's come, not in what we hear or read
but see within
our hidden self unseen, New baked bread
leavens some to taste the nostaligics sin

..............

Raven's come not in what we hear or read
but see within
our hidden self unseen. New baked bread
leavens some to taste the nostalgic sin
of touching others swettly, crust tapped
to prove the hollow echo ready for
madelienes and lemon cakes.

.................

Raves come, not in what we hear or read
but seen within
ourself unseen: mother's smell, new baked bread
leavens some to taste old nostalgic sins;
blind as birds gaping, blood barel hidden,
they rise to see what they wish to eat
before choking in the agreement
that words do not ring like lemon cakes.

..................

Ravens come, not in what we hear or read
but taste within
ourself unseen: mother's smell, new baked bread,
a lorn of lemon cakes to hot for thin
fingers, resting on a wire in sunlight.
How fat we would be were nostalgia real
and how toothless

.................

Raven's come, not in what we hear or read
but taste within
ourself unseen: mother's smell, new baked bread,
a lorn of lemon cakes, too hot for thin
fingers, resting on a wire in sunlight.
How fat we would be were nostalgia real
and how tootless sweet. So lick the blue
from under your nails

in sunlight
How fat we would be were nostalgia real
and how toothlessly sweet. Almost as shapr
as the rasp of those, who hold the now tight
and snarl at any who sin and dare feel
their past, your past, the Raven's bargained smatt.

........

nothing not even

.......

Ravens come: not in what we hear or read
but taste within
ourself unseen; mother smell, new baked bread,
a lorn of lemon cakes, too hot for thin
fingers resting on wire in sunlight.
How fat we should be be were nostalgia real
and how toothlessly sweet. It bites as sharp
as the rasp of hem that grip now so tight
and snarl at any who dare sin to feel
their past, your past; raven bargain's: smart.