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The Crow

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The Crow's vision is warped
Like trying to see through a sheet of crushed glass
Or black felt, so dark that you can't see it's soaked in blood.

Crow wraps the cool night around herself
Shining black feathers hide her
The dark protects her, if no one else will.

The Crow sees innocent Doves
Like festering carrion
Covered in stolen Swan's feathers.

Doves are pure inside and out
The black bird has nothing inside
Neither purity nor indifference
To dilute the dark stain
Spreading throughout her broken body.

If you pluck her bitter ebony feathers off
Her skin is a deathly pale, malnourished white
She can't get enough air in the suffocating darkness.

Doves have blood, Crow has seen them bleed
Crimson flowers blossoming on their soft feathers
When she cuts them.

The diseased stain poisoning Crow
Makes her hurt the sparkling Doves
Just to see the pure blood flow
Like scarlet rivers pouring off snow-covered mountains
Life that she cannot have.

Only then can she see
The Doves' blood is far too precious to be spilt
It can keep Crow alive
Even if the life is not hers to live.



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