I dreamt myself a white winged crow
Pecking carrion from a page;
Blood Gushed, hot and black.
My pearlescent quills frayed -
Grew sparse - that wind would not catch.
I could no longer fly.
Faster, yet faster I ate.
Blacker, yet blacker I stained.
And when my belly was full
A sob rang from my bloodied beak.
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Author:
Matthew J. Bays (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: June 2nd, 2026 11:57
- Comment from author about the poem: Sometimes I wonder if we were ever made to know this much.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 0
Online)
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