Magic.
It flies, yet stays still.
It wanders around aimlessly,
No home, no resting place.
It kills, it relies on the lives of others.
The polar opposites flee to it, and fight.
Sorrow drapes its arm over it,
protecting it for any hope of happiness
So sadness and madness is all it knows.
So it still flies around aimlessly, yet it stays still.
It has no home, no resting place.
It kills, yet relies on the lives of others.
Magic.