the river that cries


had it been different 
had it been otherwise 
i might not have conceived 
such an elaborate disguise 
as we walked, that night 
along the river that cries 
for the damned, the departed 
we can only surmise 
this life, a bird 
and how quickly she flies 
each birth borne 
for it’s own demise 
hilarity, this mask i wear 
to cover these eyes 
and this cloak of deception 
has so many ties 
intricately clasped 
and threaded by lies 
and the form of a crow 
laughing may rise 
darkly into 
forbidding skies 
and can you hear it, this music 
beyond reason there lies 
a party 
and how sweet, the lullabies 
and joy, just a baby 
with a spark in her eyes 
let’s cast off these costumes 
mortality, a guise 
naked on the edge of this infinite night

Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.

Boulder Weekly accepts poetry and flash fiction submissions of 450 words/35 lines or fewer, accompanied by a one-sentence bio of the author. 

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