“Wind,… the Crow’s Ocean”


“The wind blows about directionless….While the crow chooses, alone,… to fly toward the West.”

“Brother to the Raven…his golden eye seems to see all…

“A murder is their gathering…rarely ever do they fall.”

“The wind seems to carry them…without the flapping of wings…

“They will gather around their dead….crying in the tree’s.”

“So if their calls echo against the wind…Some might consider it a warning…others might call them friends.”

“Tide’s of the Wind’s…a crashing of the Skies Waves…the currents undertow toward heaven…God’s firmament on display.”

Anthony Micheal Roberts



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