Upon Observing Van Gogh’s Wheatfields with Crows

Dusk is brushed with onyx crows

that break away the wind;

clouds dissipate in the cobalt sky

where the moon is blurred by torturous strokes

of turquoise light.

Two eyes creep

from an endless space of breathless weeps.

Suddenly, ravens tear at fields of rust and yellow chartreuse

where the land of death is plowed.

Violent beaks violate earth

to uncover the avenue of penitence

that leads towards the horizon

where life's gasp of air is lost.

Ravens and crows fly with murderous intent

while blood siftings fall on dirt

breeding feculent, putrid smells.

Not to breathe, but to die,

to sleep half-awake and wait

for murder to take over the body.