The grim crow had not been paying a care for what was ahead of it. That's why it ended up here. This familiarly grotesque place, with bleak flowers and rocks that made it's feet ache and scream. It wad just in the fantastical, joyfilled, version of the fields when it fell and fast. The crow couldn't have caught itself, not with it's wings having been clipped so well.
So it waited.
The dark bird screamed into to fog, hopping for the replies it so latched to. But it was silent. So it waited. It thought, "what if I had done something differently? What if I had never come to the flower fields?" It hurt to think these things but it couldn't thing of much else in the uncannily rotten and empty fields.
After so many years, once again that crow was alone and it couldn't fly.
YOU ARE READING
the writings of someone
De Todoidk, stuff I write varying from complete fantasy to stuff that hides my thoughts and vents in them it's angsty stuff sometimes read with cation
