The Crows Gift
I see the Crow,
I hear it calling,
the songs grow,
and I'm falling.
Death is not
But a dream,
we are taught,
not to scream.
I see the Crow,
wings wide spread,
I have come to low,
hanging by a thread.
Slumber is escape,
but its not death,
its not too late,
it can steal your breath.
Copyright © Katrhryn Miller | Year Posted 2010
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment