Just a little fledgling high in a tree, way up there she had everything. She was pushed off to young, she fell to fast. The others were still safe in the nest, sheltered and secure, meanwhile while reality rained down on her. The heavy droplets weighed down her under devolped wings, she was to cold to sing. The young crow grew older and her soul grew colder, everything was out to get her on the ground, now she was parinoid of every sound. The life of the crow was coming to an end, she would die young but that didnt matter as it was the new trend. Birds of a feather turned against each other and now the only murders consisted of spilt blood rather than the blood that deemed them family. She saw it coming, she knew all along it would be her murder that killed her.
