The Crow Poem by Riano Harp

The Crow's flight to freedom
Was an impetuous attempt:
Defiled and cut by reason
He landed on crooked contempt.

I came afar to indulge in his rhyme
And maybe fly high like his myth;
Though his beak was as soft as his verse
And as bleak as the fifth!

Once, in the casket mirror
We would see himself fly:
In his cage wreaked terror
And people would read and sigh...

We tried to enjoy his flow
But he beguiled and hid in feathers of pale satin:
Bustling condensations, flightless and alone
A 'bird' bound by the rules he sat in!

I make this too simple
So he can easily understand:
I pity his inky frostings
For The Crow will never leave land.

The irony is left unblemished
And his eyes match his wings:
So piteous in grace- Love!
Oh how terribly he sings!

Time subsides his reflection
In a wrinkled hole:
He stinks of nothingness
And lacks a poet's soul!

The Crow is tainted and furious
No one respects his squawk!
Truth resides in the worms he chews
And the limp in his walk.

Drying eyes, burning feet
He speaks outrightly of death:
Masked in the Plague of Illusion
Stupidity stains the smell of breath.

I am young but I can see afar
Unlike the mole on itching skin:
He lacks the knowledge of flying
And moves his wings like a fin.

It seems there is an esoteric darkness in the air
I didn't mean to intrude:
But if everyone is like this Crow
Then you all must be rude!

I will leave now, less dulled
And The Crow who is culled.
You have given me purpose!
And shown me how to be loose!

Unlike you, I have wings
And the impulse of flight.