Some say the song of a crow is a cry
Some say the cry of a crow is a lie

I wonder what it's like to be one of them
Do they get jealous?
Are some blacker
And therefore creators of envy and mistrust in the dark 
hearts
Of their brethren?
Or do they just exist
Scavenging crumbs of carrion here and there
Laughing, cackling really
At the two legged pestilence
Painfully fouling the ground beneath their airborne 
pirouettes
Do they really want their screaching and hideous 
demanding offspring
Or do they simply have no choice
But to follow compulsions blindly
Driving them into situations they cannot control
Situations that look so easy and desirable
But lead only to the same pain
And the same suffering
And the same lifeless branches that always indicate
A barrier of barren emptiness
Dead trees are everywhere