The Crow Waits~
I see it on high sitting in a tree, a Crow amongst the sparse fall leaves
that yet hang to the branches, even though winter fast approaches,
no one told them it seems that they are dead and should already be on their way.
The crow with its pitted black eyes knows me it seems, for it calls my name
across the wind while I languish on the ground in my own blood which spills
from my body and forms around me like a macabre picture frame.
Funny thing, how the crow knows my name, a simple carrion bird waiting for
this warrior’s death so it can pick me clean and leave nothing but my bleached bones,
rusted armor, and a forgotten sword as my only legacy.
Long has the battle been gone from this place I now rest in, the victors have gutted me
like a fish on a stone and left me to the flies and the maggots to fester inside.
But yet shall I live, ever stubborn to die and only the Crow truly knows why.
I hear it laughing at me, calling me a fool for an adventure I sought full of folly
with only death to be met at its end.
It has seen many a fool I am sure and feasted contently before the sun has set.
But still I live! You will not have me fool or not!
So sit your perch and wait for you shall not have me this day or the next,
for even if I should pass these earthly bounds so shall my shade pick up
my blade and strike you down!
The sun has set and the night grows cold, the crow sits in his tree and
waits; for it has seen many a warrior born and bred and knows full well their
strength, courage and the valor which fills their head, but it knows when dead is dead
by Philip Wardlow
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