The Crow

The Crow Calling, falling cast a shadow, Dark the pitted claw does dig, Diving deep inside the shallow, Rising above what others did. Stark the teller of the story, The bitter end will show no grace, The battlefield still washed with glory, Who won the fight to take their place? What looms our sight in comprehension? The tension holds us fast and tight, Sit better pressed in cold contention, And reappear in summer’s flight. Arrest the moment for its treasure, The pressure closed to take a bite, A universal mould to measure, Weary from the dead of night. Revered for ebony jet black feathers, The weather bathed its inky gloss, Rescue the clasp that holds the letter, Or let it seek out those who lost. Float higher still in sweet surrender, A warning to those who hear, or think or feel, The flesh is sharp the beak is tender, Gently it’s pressed impose it will.