Surrounded by bodies of murder,
the flocking and squawk arose.
Score of many rows on girder,
feast of death drew the crows.
One to carry souls of many;
one onto life beyond life.
Yet was not the foe-of any-
to leave this world of strife.
The crows they flock-
they flock, they squawk;
flapping their wings tremendously.
They caw, they pecked,
they grew many in score;
groups gathered more and more.
Blackened the sky with their endless flutter;
"But what of this?" I utter.
"My days are long now being nighted,
the crows around have united."
Feathers falling, the ground is black.
Everywhere I look, it covers every crack.
The thought of death surrounds us all,
before the crows, life will fall.
The ominous bank of crows like a cloud,
covers the world like an endless shroud.
Leaving I, overwhelm with fear,
it is death lurking near.
The crows they gathered all in vast,
all is dark than a shadow cast.
They prey the lost and many more.
Time has come for death to bore.