A mass of glossy feathers, pointed shards of obsidian
With eyes full of mischief, glimmer seeking.
Those round eyes of frozen oil,
Slick and slippery with an ever changing surface gleam
Belongs to a majestic bird, large with its head high.
But at times, this creature can crouch down so low
As to pick its meal from the waste to survive, to live.
The Crow, a shadow's bird
Stalks invisible death only seen to his keen, watchful eyes
And he croaks, screams loudly
Alerting the others of his kind
And a black cloud descends
Onto a crimson stained hill
As death leaves with a smile,
His minions and their feast.
The crow does not care,
His beak running with fresh blood
And I see his eyes aflame
Within the puddle that he stands in,
A garnet mirror.
The crow watches as I run,
Far from this grotesque scene,
But the crow is watching. Watching
And my piercing scream, reaching towards the heavens
Is cut short, choked by the black feathers
As terror stops my heart and fear feasts upon me.
The last thing