The Tale of the Smoke Crow
The Tale of the Smoke Crow
His wings were made from those he'd burned.
A crow of smoke, without true form.
A thief of sorts, who sought to hide
the carbon stone that was his heart.
I smelled him first on Eight Mile Way.
A puff of wind, first nothing there.
Then hints of sizzled skin and hair
and middle notes of fresh decay.
He must delight in maidens fair,
he circled wide to scout his prey.
His feathers fluffed, they hid the truth
that nothingness lay underneath.
He tried to play the broken bird.
Lay down on rocks, I heard him caw,
'I'm helpless, lost, bruised by storms', but
his stories morphed and made no sense.
So he flew through trees, cast snows of ashes,
till I was blind with dusty lashes.
My hair was greyed, the sky grew darkened
and the edges of his flint eyes sparkled.
He rustled up a faint warm fliicker,
stolen heat from his last victim.
While she lay charred upon the grassland,
he’d struck again, this time was faster.
He pecked a hole into my navel,
Poked in his spark and hooked my innards,
Fed by day, was gone at night
lest someone note he owned no light.
And there I burned like ne'er before.
He'd singe my heart, return for more,
confuse me with his changing clothes
that sought to dress his hollow soul.
There was nothing there but nothingness.
Nothing more and nothing less.
A feeding force that simply lived
to use your pain to lessen his.
To those that claim there’s only good
I press upon you...learn the truth.
Not all with wings are chaste and whole
and often light attracts the crows.
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