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Calling Crows
The crows calling,
carried like a feather on the wind.
The wind roaring,
Like the roar of a bright waterfall.
The lakes darkening,
So black that even a light would feel invisible.
The cause, loneliness encroaching.
Cutting deep into subconscious, like a knife in cake
Leaves the wound festering,
Nothing to fix or fill the void.
Nothing to stop the mental fighting,
Bringing greater grief, like crows in a mourning murder.
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