The Crows Gift
I see the Crow,
I hear it calling,
the songs grow,
and I'm falling.
Death is not
But a dream,
we are taught,
not to scream.
I see the Crow,
wings wide spread,
I have come to low,
hanging by a thread.
Slumber is escape,
but its not death,
its not too late,
it can steal your breath.
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