There is a place where the crows fly.
Where the trees are bare and the sky is gray.
This is a place that I've been to before.
A place to which I shall never return.
I was lost
As I vacantly meandered across the dry desolate earth.
I was scared
By the crows that were perched
On the jagged branches of the dead trees.
They would call to me
Squawking, mocking:
"Come fly to us"
"Fly to the end of this place."
And for reasons unbeknownst to me
I followed them.
Never will I follow them again.
I traipsed after the crows that drifted in the drab skies
Until I reached the end of the wasteland.
There was nothing.
Nothing but a dark abyss
That stretched as far as the mind could imagine.
This was a place devoid of hope
From which no man could return.
I turned from the abyss
And I never looked back.
I saw many others in the place where the crows fly.
They trudged mindlessly
With a storm cloud of crows hovering above their heads.
Calling. Squawking. Mocking.
I tried to tell them.
"There is nothing here for you"
But they just turned their heads
And kept marching.
I worry for them to this day
For I fear that they will never return from the wasteland
And they will be swallowed by the abyss
Forever.
All the way through that wasteland
The crows followed me.
Screeching and squawking and taunting.
"Stay with us."
I have since left the place where the crows fly.
I have never returned
And I never will.
I now live a world full of color.
Where the trees are lively
And the skies are bright.
But the crows are still here.
Rested upon the trees and power lines.
They call to me
"Come fly with us once more."
