A Murder Of Crows

In the dusty submission of my life's begging remission
My soul, could never find forgiveness
There was a murder of crows, I'm guilty I suppose
Of not doing things in neat little rows
The bullet hit his face, he fell, the crows frightened as well
Left me standing in a pool of bloody hell
And as the murder flew away into this horrible day
He spoke his dying words, " My friend, I am not afraid!"...

For the rest of my life, those words haunted my nights
With the murder of crows, the wingspan of my mind
And the burgeoning recognition, insanity, my predisposition
For the growing taste of blood I became a physician
I danced upon toes, created by a murder of crows
My heart grew as black as liver's blood, when it glows
And though I could not sleep, human organs I did eat
Which allowed me a tortured way to dream
In these dreams I composed, operas, for these tortured souls
Lives I had taken and given, to a puppeteering murder of crows
An indignity I had gained, from a dying man's final refrain
"My friend.." he had gurgled, "I, am not, afraid!"

Tony Taylor