Raven Is a Flower

Raven is a Flower The floral women speak to chilly wind. Calling out the ancient remnants penned in golden lace, milked with cran-embroidered keys. The grave stones plunge deep into their seats, worthy by the black flower forest. The Raven caws, crossing the crimson lake. Sipping on the stone black tree petals. Cotton shreds through the fine bedrock. Ensuing treasured remorse, a winter long story. The Raven’s cry springs out of the honey baked trees, from the sun-faced rays. A fibrous shadow turns inward, touched by effervescent cran-burned bronze, and copper covered ivory. A pause, offering swords of sacrifice. Tuning into a sight filled with glutted stride.