a crow sings his sweet melody calling
me to the window with my tear staned
face. I watch as he does his little dance
for me. I smile at the thought of him coming
for me. my arms are sticky with rivers
of red hoping i will soon be dead.
The raven swoops down on the crow
chasing it away. Did he bring
his maker to take me away?
Categories:
staned, death
Form: I do not know?