What is the right ending?

Murders of crows sing
Prophetic tales

An evil man, in righteous body
Waiting eternities, to leave a wake
Of ruins, oracles weaping
The fall of man.

This false world,
Twist apart the flesh
Fighting, torn to pieces
To encapsulate, the intent

Fiendish resonates in the chest
A word, spoken by strangers
Summoning, to their ignorance
The mad king

Howling vibrations grasp
At the walls lining the throat
Where booming echoes
Locate the delusions.

Words, chain the beast.
The maniac cackles,
Taunting in the cells.
Always ready, always waiting.

---

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

Lost in a moment
Clarity, profoundly strikes,
Resonating in my soul
I hear the Crow caw
Her fluttering black feathers
An anchor to a spiritual realm.
Beckoned by moonbeams
Glowing full in the darkness
Piercing the night sky, into
A lunatic's daydreams
Where beady eyes observe me
So particular, curiously investigating
With a nod of approval, ambitions rise
Time elapses through the stars
Graceful wings dance of destiny
Visions of fate, binding us together.

Have ever you heard
   The crows sing sweetly?
A singing bird,
   They sing discreetly.

They caw to scoff
   And to berate you,—
To **** you off
   And agitate you.

O.O

Crows circle high above
Cawing to each other, calling
Then down, down, down they come
Lightly they are falling

“I wish I could fly away too,”
I whisper up into the air
“So I could go somewhere nicer
And avoid these hostile glares”.

“I wish I could fly away
To a place where I am not wrong
To a place where I fit in
Somewhere I belong”.

I look down from the sky again,
Back down to the floor.
Sink to my knees upon the concrete
With the weight for years I bore.

“I wish I could just fly away”,
I say again out loud.
I don’t realize I’m crying
Releasing the pain I found.

“Soar away on the winds,
As easily as they do”
I gesture to the crows above,
“So I can get away from you.”

I look down at my hands now,
For I realize I am bleeding
The pain is just trickling away
And my inner demons are feeding.

I now comprehend my mistake
For that way is so wrong
But this is something I cannot handle
For I am not that strong

I’m in a pool of blood now
As I fall down to the ground
My vision starts to go woozy
My head begins to pound

“I wish I could fly away,”
I whisper my last words
But as I die I’m all alone
So these words remain unheard.

There was a tier in the dark, where everything rode silently below the surface. Where secrets and sorrows never rose for air. In this place, when all light died and the wolves grew old, the crows rode upon their backs.
Crows as black as rotting teeth, they spent the days shrieking in the fields, and at night they gathered in their shadowy roosts, making evil plans and discussing the inevitable fall of mankind. Only there would he come to realize that all men are only as sick as the secrets they harbour.
The crows stank of a different rot. They had been feasting, somewhere, somewhere in the dark and the gloom, in the hidden places, on hidden bodies. They stank and they carried that stink with them. Their eyes had beheld things he dared not imagine, and they gazed upon him with those same little eyes, conspiring with one another in harsh, croaky declarations, as if they really had some awful language of their own. Screaming gibberish.
It was known to all that Christopher Weiher possessed an almost irrational hatred toward all crows. He sometimes wondered if they were now just waiting for him to die.

I got to say these things that were eating away at my soul like the birds,
Birds that happen to look a whole lot like crows,
who only ever go after the dead decaying prays,
because when it's dead, it's easiest to ****** away.

But I spoke line after line like the little white lines that lie in long lines,
on the highways where the dead bodies have been laid out to dry,
I was not going to give into your games let alone cry,
but if I must shed some tears to tell all the fears you have put on me,
then my eye will bleed red,
and never dry out,

And for me to pour my heart out onto you,
is as evil as the crow you are,
while you plot where you're going to pick me apart first when I finish,
but like the crows and the dead carcase I am,
we all have rights,
but like the bandages that can't stick around to fix my wounds,
im sorry,
A thing I've been more often than sometimes,
so its hard to fill in the bubbles of how someone hurts,
when the scales seem to add up in the favor of the other hand.

But that still gives me no right to act and do the things you do,
and play dress up in rooten old skin,
like you have set the example for me,
to lie to those who stared death in the face and went on as before,
but before they were nothing and after there still wasn't something,
and you checked the boxes under the bubbles.
securing they would be fine.

when in reality they were fine like you said,
if you compared their mental status to that of yours.
who let someone roam around like a dead corps.
as the crows above circled and waited,
mocking,
taunting,
waiting for the innocence of an infant to mess up.
so they could finally strike.

I get it's only human nature,
Just like the circle of life,
*But why do people have to keep neglecting children,
until those vultures finally strike.

It’s not over until all the crows
fall from holes opening in the clouds--
sunlight washing cracked concrete white.

I refuse to let your actions fade to static until
the last ca-caw echoes on parkways silent
as the attempted protests of the girls you *****.

I could count five of them by the time I left, yet
none seemed able to open their stitched lips
despite my rallies and strong-worded speeches.

Maybe that’s because you laughed at them, too,
when they threatened to file police reports.
But five years have past since then,

and the rage freezing me from the inside out
has begun to fade, slowly, thawed under
a sun growing steadily more yellow--warm,

my friends always said it would be
if only I would just give it a chance--
all the crows are falling.