The crow is solemn among the branch,
Staring at nothing but horizons and bark.
The snow capped scene it did surround, in the quiet, sleepy
and noisy town.
The crow shudders its wings and wakes the snow in a hazy
Clouded shroud the crow did go
He had witnessed the inhabitants more than he dare see
The abuse, the guile the festering fleas
The rodents of theatre masquerading a foul vigor
In duplicated ego, and whispered intuition.
He saw the truth he saw the daily lies the grand hypocrisy
The grand prevail.
They cannot ere another fable the replica of tales repeats
In ceaseless curiosity.
He flaps amongst the cold air and feels the rush of europhia
As he dances with ability, freedom and choice
The crow moves in unstoppable momentum towards the observed horizon
And behind the orange glow of life.
Copyright © Paul Knight-Kirby