Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Crow

The crow calls into the night,

the moon is morose,

inconvenienced by inconsolable skies,

that burst into tears every few minutes.

Silver spills from the sky onto the city streets,

empty pavements that expect company,

but are always disappointed.

Trees are titans,

towering above benches made from their branches,

watching over their children,

as the wind jumps and frolics,

making mischief,

as the night goes on.

The crow calls into the night,

to ask the sky,

why she cries so much,

but the sky cannot speak,

she can only cry.