---

black crows fly
flock to the moon
and pick its fields clean
i sit and watch the harvest
as if in a dream

its face is barely visible
its light torn from its eyes
i sit here a'weeping
as it sails the skies

o brave moon!
do not despair!
don't give them a thought!
they may pluck your lighted fields
but their work is all for naught!

later in the evening
i see you have not waned!
as for all the scavengers

not a one remains.


soulsurvivor
(C) 9/28/2015