My Name is Crow

My feathers are black like the darkness in nothingness and I belong to the times of bleak. My wings propel me through the wind as if I had no permanent home, which to me is true. Today I move Westward, tomorrow shall be down, down, down, down. An omen of black, of illness, of loneliness as I am a traveling bad luck charm. My fear is amplified in the eyes of the world, one that looks at me with such disdain.

Bound to loneliness like the night that I marry. MY feathers will always be black as they are plucked off little by little by the forces of a universe that needs me but does not want me there. In this life there was only sorry that could be remembered as the pieces of me were slowly dismembered. I have no “soul”, bringer of bad news and naysayer.

I am called crow, for no other name was ever long enough stuck to my skin. A small heart as if that were the true distinguisher of compassion.  The flame that burned inside of me was extinguished by the “people”, the other birds that flew near me and quickly flew away. I did not give a beautiful display of colors and I did not bring the red rosy cheeks of beautiful babies. Like my shadow, all I did was obstruct the light that the other birds so beautifully reflected. I am the absence of light and thus, I must be the absence of joy.

My name is crow and no one knows.

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