019
As I sat, lost and still
a lump of black softly fell.
It quietly sat,
and stranger still;
the eyes I saw.
Into my lap a crow had fell;
perhaps an omen, or a knell,
with wings of black,
and stranger still;
a broken beak and claw.
Thrice, it tapped at my skin,
it gently rapped its broken bill,
with somber dread,
and stranger still;
the word it cawed.
It spoke a word I'd never yet
heard of, or ever since;
one that was never said,
and stranger still;
the woe it brought.
It spoke a word that was my name;
it spoke a word that was my fate.
As I sat, it turned its head,
and stranger still;
the way it watched.