The Poet

“For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of nations. For nature is as truly beautiful as it is good, or as it is reasonable, and must as much appear as it must be done, or be known. Words and deeds are quite indifferent modes of divine energy. Words are also actions, and actions are a kind of words.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882).  
 
Carry-on with me 
Carrion to clean 
Bleach as good as new 
Flesh to cook and chew 

I saw you lying down in 
Vulture Street 
I slowed to sniff the scent 
Upon the breeze 

Carry-on with me 
Carrion to clean 
Bleach as good as new 
Flesh to cook and chew 

I found you flying free in 
Vulture Street 
Your soul was circling high 
O’er still body 

Carry-on with me 
Carrion to clean 
Bleach as good as new 
Flesh to cook and chew 

I left your bones behind in 
Vulture Street. 
Polished clean they shone like 
Ivory. 

Carry-on with me 
Carrion to clean 
Bleach as good as new 
Flesh to cook and chew