Prose
The Void
I travel alone on the crow’s wings; through his eyes I see all the things that a mortal mind cannot comprehend for all alone have I committed my sin and taken it upon myself to endure and own this bird’s health; see the things I dread; feel the void of all the dead.
Ancient and bygone, withered and sore; the heat of life, I will feel nevermore.
The only things before me are things I don’t want to see; the things that only curse me; there’s no one to nurse me, mend my broken wings as I try to fly or my broken heart as I try to cry or wipe the tears I cannot shed, or fill the void of being dead.