A horde of black birds flee their tree,
Seemingly generated from a plane not here,
A generation of squawks and squeals -
A spawned crow nation.
Their shrieks and screeches are a purposeful clash.
Their numerous flock flying away - still croaking.
Leaving our world with a crash - still croaking.
Yet, still remains the sound of their screams,
Their shrill tones now reside on my tongue.
I caw to call the crows,
They take no note.
My crows turn to cries.
The tears leave my face, appearing from no where.
As they fall to the ground - in unison -
they disappear as quickly as they spawn.
The crows are gone, now -
But our screams remain.