Death Comes Like a Crow

On hallowed ground behind the etched-stone marker roses, withered, shriveled, disturbed by crows, now unwillingly tumble and scatter to the after like wisps of nothingness colliding with the blows of empty wind. When will this torment end? A single stem, bare, not a thorn to prick; A bitter reminder that a stem can bend in many ways and still, be destroyed by wind. Carried off by talons of a black raven beast, stem gone, petals lost, tears dried by passing time alone. Since then, the cold vicious winds have ceased to exist, and yet, like a grandfather reliant on its chime, crows return with a crave to defecate on them again, and hunt for roses laid a top of someone’s bitter end.