A Third Of The Bird

Shattered feathers were flown in wicked ways, It'll fly around nearest skies at night, unless the eyes became in evil yellowish color, it might be something truly terrifying midtown forestland, the peak would and should sharp edges, as many ledges, the sounds of infinity crisis, unthinkable birdy talk, claws made of chalk, not much on balk, the darkened poet of a bird who becomes Raven beforehand, he sits on the graveyard singing away nonstop, unless on the old shady nameless tombstone ingloriousness southern bare naked hand of artist  lookalike feathers of an ancient bird, the weathers has been cold

Written by
Michael James Brindley
5-7-19