where the writers are
Black Crow
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Here comes that black crow again

Seems so tall when he hovers 

Out of the shadows

Out of the fog, the grime

Once again, carrying heavy gloom

The same way Sound is carried on the soldiers' boots,

Caked in mud and lies

Bringing the darkness, strangling the hope

Sleek and black like ebony bark, burnt skin, black rice.  

 

It's true.

Stained hearts often do

Somehow find their way

To a keyboard and a page

With or without invitation

Much the same, the crow finds his way

To my open window, now

Only dimly lit by a crack in the glass.