The Bird's cry

The magpie at the window preens
and pecks the stubborn glass,
an image unmerciful against
the mist that hangs heavy in winter air,
trapped and cocooned in warmth,
slightly ruffled in storm,
unfeeling, unmoved by shivering
feathers, curling up in a ball
of tight, fleeing warmth of brief life.
A careless hand would toss
the carcass any moment now
lest the children's cries fill the house
with fresh dread and ringing despair.

The broken doll

I opened my heart and
darkness crept in wave after waves-
a solid veil of onyx fell
with the soft thud of a smothering
pillow on a silent victim.
It writhed in my chest,
a coil of serpents not one,
vicious in their hatred,
made my heart their whetting stone.

Cry of the Sybil

Give me some roses to sweeten
the misery of a hundred lived lives.
Send a little breeze to my lonely
gilded cage of desires,
Bring a shower to wet the sands of time
rolling beneath my feet.
Come dove-winged sleep to drown 
the weight of fates on soiled eyelids.