crow is fictitious, rounding
mans outer edges hopping waiting
watching life’s disappointments spill
over the masses faces in frowns
watching men skim pebbles cross their
muddy-clouded minds
the covering sky’s wrinkling blue
magnifies every stones falling short
while crow is fictitious he still waits, perches
in minds branches to move man away from earths gray patches
he circles in the blue swoops to slice form’s flesh
from unsuspecting men’s thoughts
and if man let crow all the way in to begin
his art crow will skin this man alive
peel this mans flesh and all away using only his beak
to mingle blood
only claw-picks to vibrate nerves and sting
this man’s air out his lungs
if crow finishes before said man is dead, evacuates few
enough cells in time, mans pleads and cries for death
will let crow know he’s done his job well
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