Hour 7: Crows for Carrion

The crows keep pecking
Picking at the carrion
Of my lost childhood

The corpse keeps twitching
Restless still
But rotted within

Cartilage and bone
May be enough to stand on
If not for the crows

Feathers like petrol
Let them burn
An ink black pyre

Their supper paid for
Claw for flesh and beak for bone
Now carrion feasts

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