Voices of Black Crows

A gust of heartless air escaped the cracked door

I arrived just in time to inhale the aftermath of decayed black crows,

Only to regurgitate the clumps of feathers

I almost suffocated.


Taking an innocent piece of me

Before leaving,

Like an infectious disease attacking my body,

I exhaled.


I stepped into The Room.


The muttered noise of bodies adjusting echoed

In violent decibels

Proceeding through my ears

In perfect unison

Like dying ballerinas dancing before God.


But I only saw subtle movements,

The twitch of a limb, the blinking of eyes,

Trembling bodies under the piss-stained sheets

To let me know that they're still alive, still breathing,

A part of them still comprehending,

Of their existence.


Only some of the emaciated orphans contrived a disgraceful whisper,

Their last pathetic attempt at a breath,

Only to be violated by the frigid air

And exploited back to silence.

Like their voices couldn't be heard,

The cries, the groans, the muffled suffering wouldn't be heard,

Like the empty woods of their winter hearts wouldn't be found.


You're ok, I assured them.


Everything is going to be fine.


I promised.


I promised.


I caught his glance

His eyes were like a blank canvas painted with despair

He stared.


Then he reached up.


With fingers thin as twigs,

A shrink-wrapped body of bones

He lied there silent, motionless.

But illuminated in this incomprehensible bravery,

Grasping my hand tightly and embracing his death

Like a dying warrior in combat,

Slowly diminishing to flesh and bones,

For his soul almost escaped him.


For the lucky ones, they did.

Quick and painless.


But I soon came to a conclusion that there was no such thing.


There was no such thing as quick,

There was no such thing as painless,

That was only a grandiose idea

Contrived in my 6 year old mind to protect my reality,

To end my suffering.


They wrapped up the lucky ones in their own shit-stained sheets.

Tossed in black trash bags like filthy rats.

I saw the white truck arrive,

A constant meeting between garbagemen.


They tossed them into the truck

Sometimes 2 or 3 at a time,

Black trash bags of dead children.


See, in my orphanage we had a dying room.


We didn't have doctors or nurses to heal our  broken wings,

No ambulances to fly us away,

To a different place to ease the pain.


And how dare you complain of your dead goldfish?


Those black crows had names

Those black crows wore uniforms to school

They laughed, cried and played and sometimes all three at the same time,

Those black crows became my family,

They became a part of me

I tried my best

To heal those black crows but a part of me died along the way.


To this day,

I hear the voices of those black crows.

To remind me that I use to be one of them.




Those black crows have flown away to a better place.

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