The Crow

As time goes by,

You stand and ponder,

"When will I die?"

So you wonder.

As you wander through the graveyard,

You ask yourself,

"Why is life so hard?"

You say to oneself.

So you stand under the murder of crows,

 And watch the birds fly away

As the howling wind blows,

However one stays.

The crows flies to the ground,

It caws at you,

As it makes sounds

You stare at its hue,

Months have past,

Since you've last seen the crow,

Your heart begins to glow,

Your mind grows,

Your eyes become bright as snow.

Until the air grows cold,

Making you shiver to the bone,

It grows into the feeling that you've know,

The crow.

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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