Minor Writings

Melancholy

It tugs and pulls on my heart.
Almost as if there were strings attached like on a puppet at a show.
Dreary, dreary is the crow.
Laughter is what I hear from it when I cry.
It mocks me with its eyes.
For it longs for my demise.
I see it scowl when I laugh.
My bedroom window is where it stays.
Impatiently waiting throughout my days.
The crow awaits till the day I fade.
Finally, it sees me in my final hour.
A grin upon the crow's face and speaking words that are utmost sour.

"Mad, they say you are, old man," the crow says.
Not a day goes by without its cruel words.
Oh, how I despise the obnoxious and vile birds.
Who would've thought that a man of my regime would spend his final hours like this?
The crow is the mad one here and not me
"Try and speak those words to Priest Montgomery and then you'll see."
"Oh, hold back your tongue fowl!" I exclaim.
"Crow! Crow! I only ask but one, simple thing."
It flies through the room and lands making the glass table ping.
"What is your final wish, Mr.LaRoux?"
"A quill and paper to leave a message before I expire."
"That is something I will grant, dear sire."
On my message I shall write, "Never forget the crow's name. Melancholy."