- Ali Isaac
Carrion | A Poem
Updated: Feb 27, 2020

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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