Find the Crow

it was made of stone, 

of stone, stone, marble

a crack, veins like solemn hands sought a name written in the middle

my head hurts, it hurts,

i grab the soil and scratch the earth.

nocturnal consciousness bodes thoughts from the hooting crow.

my knees touch the earth and i scream for my sleep-found-hearth.

because when i wake up it is gone, gone, 

i am still not sure if it ever was,

because when i sleep, when i sleep,

i hear the entire bloodline talk and toast to drink, my bedsheets keep me warm.