The mocking and jeering, Making tumultuous the past peace, Tainting the once silent clearing.
I cry out and on myself curl, Weeping of the possibilities lost, And in accordance with the names they hurl.
I reach out to find an obelisk of hope. One of splintered wood and rusted nails, But one to which was tied no noosed rope.
As one hand passes its brother, The crows grew silent and simply saw. Perhaps this day they might lose another?
I felt the rust in my arm, Spread ever thinly over my heart. But yet, surely this was not any harm?
My skin turned black, My face did change, While bones shifted in my back.
One finger clawed at the precipice, Had I found my sanctuary on high? The crows grew anxious, with collective hiss.
I reached out, Talons closing around the first. From this one, an otherworldly shout.
I cast him down and took his place. Finding my pleasure as he fell broken. Finding my pleasure from his screaming face.
I moved for the next beak, But slowly stopped my reach, Realizing that to me it did speak.
"Brother, why do you rage? Are you not at home with us? Watching this poor one struggle within his cage?"
When down my eyes cast, I watched a boy struggle, I wasn’t their target, finally, at last.
And now I hear myself shout, The cry of the crows echoing within. The bastard soul beneath me with no way out.
This is the way of the crows, Laughing at the dying beneath us, Whilst we perch on black wire in our tidy rows.