Illuminating stars reflect off the wings
Of a big ugly worthless old crow,
As he soars through the night watching beautiful things
That he sees on the ground down below.
Swift is the river, bending and turning
As it wraps around hills like a vain.
Adrenalines building, his stomach is churning,
To the point of unbearable pain.
He tucks in his wings so they press to his back
Then plummets head first to the stream
As though he were making some hate filled attack
And pierces the sky with a scream.
The black water shines with the glare of the moon
Its beauty; a steel iron fist
Grabbing and pulling the crow so he’d soon
Fall into the unknown abyss.
With each precious second, that slowly goes by
The river grows larger and larger
Along with his burning passionate cry
To be part of the cool graceful water
The rapids grow closer, it splashes his face
As the crow takes his very last breath
And breaks through the water with unimpaired grace
To face his most wanted wish; death.
But endings like this only happen to those
With the greatest amount of luck.
He washed up on a bank where nothing grows
Where he found himself breathing, though stuck.
Between the two branches the crow sat and cried
Finding himself in a mess.
If he fell a bit faster he just might have died
In the beauty the water possessed.
He sat and he sat til’ eventually time
Took the crow’s frail tortured soul.
His disfigured body, now covered in grime
Surrendered itself to death’s toll
The stream is still moving with rhythmic flow
Still bearing the glint of the sky.
Unaware, unaffected by the old wretched crow
And the way that he wanted to die.
