Crows And Ravens
As black birds, bad luck shadows us,
For we have many personas like trickster
Or ill-omened out caster, cast away
No matter how our broken speech sounds.
Our mere presence spark uncomfortable discourse.
How many chances can they take with our lives?
I’m cursed, within this unnoticeable room,
Where my only odds are fight or flight.
Except, my wings have been clipped, so it’s pointless.
Still, I’m dubbed as the freedom fighter,
And yet, I remain locked in a steel cage.
My sanity splits into delirium.
Fear burrow ever deeper into my fragile soul.
Anger begins to throb inside my once gentle heart,
When the sadness starts clawing at the darkened pupils.
All the while, the hunger instills its own painful symptom.
So, I peck, I claw, I snap at the lock,
While screeching the dialect, everyone forgot.
As one of them, I am voiceless.
A handful of grain is tossed in, with little care.
Above, the water rains down from the silver jug.
This occurred, till one hand unlocked it.
I struck her— blood had trickled down.
I clawed— I struggled for the sweet scent of freedom.
I hopped—I hopped from that oppressing cage.
Willingly, I followed her out of the devil’s domain…
Never to return.
Copyright © David Ferguson | Year Posted 2017
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