The Black Bird
A black raven sits
On a pale white windowsill.
Watching a blank empty soulless being,
Lay in an endless sleep.
Never to wake,
Or to see the soft light of day.
The raven sits not moving an inch,
From his forever shadowed spot.
The being awaits for the
Black Guardian of Death to appear,
To take to being away,
Never to see the dark blank room,
With the pale windowsill,
With the black raven;
Never leaving his post
At the white windowsill.
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Comments about this poem (The Black Bird by Natai Storm )
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