Crows and Desks

The clock upstairs just striked midnight,
but all beds were ripped
and I never could sleep.

Stars mingle with my breath as I walk in silent corridors,
holding a pen as a weapon
and my heart as a shield.

My poetry was never meant to be, but it happened,
just like the storm's gray clouds bring the news of rain
and the sunset tell us of dark nights and bright days.

(In the end, the only thing a crow and a desk ever had in common
was a single writer)