Fir trees stand tall and unwavering,

Crowding closer to one another,

So their branches brush when they dance

To the breeze.

The guffaw of a crow

On a branch high above,

Echoes through the needles and leaves.

His midnight wings pound

Just to keep him aloft

For he is alone in this forest

And there is nothing to catch his fall.

He is darkness, mystery,

Everything which pushes light away,

And there is no way that he can change that.

It is what he is.

He is fear, he is horror,

And he is lost in the trees

Who are whispering to one another

In their beautiful, cold ways.

Though his wings grow tired

He flies on,

Seeking shelter away from the trees

Which witness all and speak in hushed tones.

He is a crow,

Feared for what he is,

For his laugh,

His color,

His existence.

His heart ricochets off his rib cage,

And branches whip his face,

And he loses sight of where he's going.

Flying blind,

He can't avoid the net

Which he always knew

Would catch him.