i keep most
of my thoughts
to myself
to save everyone else
the bother of
ignoring me
the irony of
preparing a feast
then begging
for scraps after
is not lost in
the subtle hints

a breadcrumb trail
draws the ravens
and i follow
the discarded pinions
seeing the patterns
in what doesn’t remain
hearing the truth
in the silence
is a survival trait
beaten home in a
flurry of hangers
a lifetime couldn’t
hope to hone to such
a deft precision