The Crow Waits

I see it on high sitting in a tree, a Crow
amongst the sparse fall leaves that yet
hang to the branches, even though winter
fast approaches, no one told them it seems
that they are dead and should already be on
their way.

The crow with its pitted black eyes knows
me it seems, for it calls my name across
the wind while I languish on the ground in
my own blood which spills from my body and
forms around me like a macabre picture frame.

Funny thing, how the crow knows my
name, a simple carrion bird waiting for this
warrior’s death so it can pick me clean and
leave nothing but my bleached bones,
rusted armor, and a forgotten sword as my
only legacy.

Long has the battle been gone from this
place I now rest in, the victors have gutted
me like a fish on a stone and left me to the
flies and the maggots to fester inside.

But yet shall I live, ever stubborn to die
and only the Crow truly knows why.

I hear it laughing at me, calling me a fool
for an adventure I sought full of folly with
only death to be met at its end.

It has seen many a fool I am sure and
feasted contently before the sun has set.

But still I live! You will not have me fool or
not!

So sit your perch and wait for you shall
not have me this day or the next, for even if I
should pass these earthly bounds so shall
my shade pick up my blade and strike you
down!

The sun has set and the night grows cold,
the crow sits in his tree and waits for it has
seen many a warrior born and bred and knows full
well their strength,courage and the valor which
fills their head but it knows when dead is dead.