Of Wyrm And Man

Listen, we are the Ravens three

perched on our crooked oak tree,

laughing as the farmhouse flares

and smoke blackens evening airs

up toward the snake-ribbed sky—

sunny day, yet black each eye

that looks upon the charred husk,

empty carcass, cinder dusk,

while fields lay as wyrm-mauled mud,

the trenches deep, crops aflood,

as though young drakes raked their claws

to bleed earth while the outlaws

sought what fare there was to steal:

food and flesh and Fortune’s Wheel.

Shadows, thus, of Wyrm and Man

are much the same at a span

and engulf all caught within:

wide as the world, black as sin,

and cast from the light of day,

perching to stay where they may.

Hearken!  We are the Ravens three—

greed, selfishness, cruelty,

and we will perch and laugh more,

perhaps near your own front door

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