Carrion | A Poem

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Cold crow,

black crow

sits in the tree.

I’m not afraid of him,

he’s not afraid of me.

He flaps and

he watches

with dark beady eye.

He knows things about me

as I stumble by.

Bold crow,

black crow

feeds on death.

He knows it won’t be long

till I draw my last breath.

Patiently,

he waited,

while the action in the field

overwhelmed me.

Thus my fate was sealed.

Cold crow,

black crow

cares not for human strife.

Our woes and battles

are just the stuff of life.

His voice is hoarse,

his cry sounds

triumphant intent.

I look back with regret

and sorrowful lament.

Bold crow,

black crow,

my soul will be renewed.

For I go now to meet my maker,

my flesh will be your food.

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