top of page

C.N.P Poetry 

  • Writer's pictureCathexis Northwest Press

The Bull

By: Austin Crowley

Misted dew hangs in the fronds of evergreen and wood.

Ponds of collected yesterday rain serve as reflecting pools for the hanging slate clouds and

senescent leaves.

A weightless breath exits my chest and Sam halts his chatting.

Before us stands a mighty bull, horns ornate and glimmering with condensation. A gust of steam

from brown snout as he grazes on humble grass. I feel a firm hand on my shoulder and hear a

hollow hammer lock into place. I know this creature will soon be gone

And heartbreak courses through me like a rippling pulse of venom.

Past, present, and future all seeming together at once.

The drifting sky cracks in twain as a sudden beam of glorious light casts the bull as almost

divine. It calls him home.

His wooded eyes shine as his head turns up to greet the warmth of eternity and Gods of yore.

While the boring is struck alight with heated anger and fractured brass, I wish that Sam had held

himself fast.

A blink of brown and flash of white,

Birds and bugs and mice find shelter

Sam’s hand steadies on my shoulder

Reflecting pools fill with ruby rain.

My shuttered anger fixes on my bull but his frame escapes my sight.

I turn to face my friend and I’m stopped in a curious way.

Sam stands like some forgotten Greek idol, a statue in the Met recovered from a ruin, only his

headless neck is painted vermilion

Like the bended fronds of the melancholy maple above us, oozing life and decaying swiftly.

Laying back, like a drunkard, his body collapses to the Earth from whence it came. Frosty moss

carries his heavy heart below to be reborn a mighty, misty bull of mine.


My name is Austin Crowley, I'm a writer/actor from North Carolina. 

I live in Brooklyn, NY at the moment and am pursuing a career as a playwright.

Poetry was the first creative art form I gravitated towards.


bottom of page