To My Beloved Crows

My murder of Crows.

My bringers of death and pose

Have joined the brotheren of promises

Allowing me to fly forever in the sky with them.

High in the treetops

My flock squawks.

And while to others they are pests

they never leave me a mess.

And nothing can compare to my crows.

They fight for the lost damned souls

Who live out in the bitter night cold.

But the cost can be too great

For they cry and weep–

like you and me.

But for some reason

My crows stand on the bow and stern

Of my wooden reed boat

waiting patiently for me

To sing them back to shore

So that I may collect

their shiny trinkets of souls

Which Life cased away into the rotting holes.

Sometimes they cease to play

in the fields of May flowers

Tow which they become nothing more than bones

I lose control and pray

that they’ll become part of the Earth’s Power.

Some say that when they’re slayed

That only the Mother will shed tears

But without my clever crows

The forest would be laid out in lonely snow.

My deadly winter uptakes and expands

And with my scythe

I’ll rip open and land

Until I find satisfaction

In the grasp of my hands