The crows

The crows twitch and hop then gradually fly some distance.

A fighting flame. Glorious.
Defying the black soil that yearned to swallow him all.
Too true in a realm of lies
This incapable planet sitting envious on the stars.

Running from the light- my father,
a fighting flame. So glorious.
That the world held the metal by his throat.

His illness devoured him.
Then left him in a ditch.