The Owl

The barn owl white with silent
opaque wisdom, gliding into minds and
watching—brothers, beware who roll
dice and attempt an intuition of the
future things—makes magnetic,
not inert or impenetrable the
chance that makes events,
today, tomorrow.
it knows and secret spies
our tears—the things that
thoughts avoid, and disguised
as wayward matrons, banshees,
Lilith saturated in sexual symbology,
also other children, crowned angels
actually demons and winged space farers,
they demand we look beneath and
analyse, as they
(spirits, figments, astral mages)
the mechanisms of
our rich and energising miseries,
our intuition of the owl, the dark corner
in which its world exists.



Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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