On Winter's breath a crow forlornly
Threshes, black as night's lids
A matte blotch marring grey covered skies
Churning with aches and overlaps both,
Darkening swirls of cloud with heaven's anguish.
This crow, escaping the weight of many
Promises that trail behind like unbegotten
Wishes, a comet tail of guilt and regrets.
Curses ring below; begrounded miscreants
Roar out displeasure at their escaped prize.
Over the hills is her destination, a land of
Water fog and ruined castles,
Swamps and gentle-leaved willow trees
Weeping over rivers of organic tears.
A whisper of ancient song hangs
Tearful in the air, there, left by
Coward peoples in boxes of their own
Adrift now, high above its iron bars, the
Little crow laments a song, an answering,
Wavering call to the forgotten lands
Ahead, always almost within reach.
Yearning for her lost lands,
She screams a new promise.
Her wings are slick and lacking in
Shine, softer than a lion's paw
And thick with greasy feathers so coveted
By those capturers below, caressing the
Air with a gentle and elegant curve
Befitting the skirts of a lady's dress.
Her beak, stout and thick with scarring,
Boasted chafing won from the struggles of
Centuries in the blackened hands of Soft-eared infidels.
The crow sang her songs through rough cords
Between the rostrum and tongue
All while alighting on gusts of northern breath.
The most captivating of her features bled a
Shining black, hard and smooth
As polished stone; her irises gleamed with
A long tortured pain of many years a prisoner,
Now free at last to roam the skies.
The light in her eyes, then, was a dangerous sort,
Befitting an angry queen commanding order
To end the livelihood of treason.
This world is a strange and terrible one,
Breathes a mother to her wide-eyed bairn
Watching a winged dot take off to her lands,
And I am glad one creature beat these
But who will keep her now?
Asks the bairn, voice soft with lisps.
And the mother berates gently in response,
Crows are never to be kept.
Now carried by a strong north wind,
Our crow fixes her stony, mournful gaze,
Ruthless and glad,
To the ever-greening blue hills she knew.
Hearty fog quilts the bases of those natural,
Bountiful towers, shrouds of elegant dust
Over the heartlands and valleys below,
Under the shadow of virgin mountains,
Near the ever-louder echo of coward voices
Diverting their sorrows to faraway listeners.
Those ill begotten dreams the
Blackened people held for her paled to the
Awing wonders of her homeland.
At least, that was what she
Wanted to believe,
Running from her iron cage, far from
The clutches of those who had tried
To clip her wings and watch her
Fall to the earth, a discarded child of her
There were kind paws too,
Those who shoved the last of their crumbs
Through the bars, through the steel
To her hungry beak,
Scraping dissonance on the metal
To keep the keepers away.
Did they not deserve their desires?
But a crow is a pet of none save the
Thrown away carcasses cast into brush
A measly offering for hungry cackling
Perched on their prized steeples, watching.
Oh, how she had longed to
Stretch her wings and soar amongst the
Clouds once more,
Not a sound to be heard but the roar of
Savage wind against her skull.
She had banished those unworthy to
The back of her mind;
They meant nothing to her.
But the dirty, featherless faces of others
Cloud her clear sights and render her
Off course, for a time.