Submissions by Saba-Elektra

The raven’s call
sours the sweet crunching whispers;
as the mourners gather,
beneath the slim veins of light,
that the tree allows.
Its twig claws
clamp the wall,
while children play
tag between the urns.

The coffin bearers
gossip by the hearse;
holding black phones,

- thumbs texting heaven.