An old crow does not fly;
dark, lopped wings un-sing.
His straw men long’d fought,
are now with stuffing wring.
A lone branch holds his feet,
claws scratching at its folds.
His caws now echo hoarse,
his weak legs too grow cold.
His wings yearn but to spread,
but spread yearn they to die;
To straws he cannot cling,
hence trust put he to sky.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
An old crow does not fly;
dark, lopped wings un-sing.
His straw men long’d fought,
are now with stuffing wring.
A lone branch holds his feet,
claws scratching at its folds.
His caws now echo hoarse,
his weak legs too grow cold.
His wings yearn but to spread,
but spread yearn they to die;
To straws he cannot cling,
hence trust put he to sky.
For my old volleyball coach, and my old volleyball team. (May you never see this.)
