[The Crow by Damien Hurst, 2009]
Belong to nowhere,
Belong to air,
Your bones and cold flesh
Craving to reach into deep earth,
Longing for its hot centre,
Howling for the suck of earth
Hags with hairs of earth roots
Spit to praise the feet of initiates.
They pull the legs of the deserving dead.
Arms fly to grab the grass, rock, stronghold,
The last gasp of what came before.
Popped underground, under soil,
To dense decay.
These are the deserving ones.
You are not one of them.