The Crow

A crow or just a figment of imagination?

Look out the window
And what do you see?
Nothing but a crow
As black as could be.

    ****************

He thought nothing of it
Just a silly bird that stared
With eyes so lit
That it made him scared.
But no, no.
He shook his head
Told it to go
Or he’d wish it dead

But It just sat
Through all night’s song
Through all the days
And all yearlong
Never did it go.
This was its home now
Since a long time ago,
Though he never made a vow,
To keep it near
from ever on end
To never disappear
Or to ever ascend.

So fifty years on
He said on his death bed
That it should be gone
Only with it's blood shed
So reaching for the gun
His body weak and ill
It weighed like a tonne
But he had something to fulfil

He took the barrel
To the crow's head
but it made a cackle
Before it fled.
“No more, no more!”
He pulled the trigger
fell to the floor
and was the bleeder
He died a second later
By the window sill,
A true hater
Of everything real.

But never did the old man know
His vision had been the lie
Not the shadow
In the corner of his eye.