The Crow
The crow, turning in it's
black, oil varnished wings.
The crescent moon, a yellow tint
that sits in it's socket.
The centre punctured making way
for scanning glances.
Take this as a symbol.
The rows of evil arms that grow
from an arched spine. Grab at life.
Devour it. Manufacturers of the end.
They break and bend their calls, players of the wind
as it dances on their tail.
Mysterious, mystical and malicious.
Trademark of superstitious as they lurk
behind our every fear.
Inside the lightest tint of ivory plastered
across the brittle bones.
Darkness eats the light.
Copyright © Phil Naylor | Year Posted 2005
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