She ,The hooded Crow.

Pmdd you are killing me

by the thoughts you leave in my mind.

Sadness to deep,

it inpels every dream

and rots it away with time.

Poppy, preach to me your tells of battle.

What might you have seen.

You, a sombre thing of hope.

A symbol made from blood.

I allow you to open my eyes, and sing your tune.

Victory emerges to a greater few.

The view from way up here. Souls without a trace , left from existence with you in there place.

Days may be vary and within the dark. You, that blooms a dot of red that stays in our hearts.

Poppy, preach to me your tells of battle.

Let us not forget those with said struggle.

A man sits under a tree along side the river bank.

He listens to the birds chirp and the ducks brisk movements amongst the vegetation of the slow moving river.

The man once grim had been rejuvenated by the peacefulness of nature.

He writes solemnly into a book, a journal to be more precise.

The words he writes are few but with in-depth meaning.

We, as a society may not understand or cherish the man’s words , however to him they are everything.

The man ,who was once just a child had given up any sort of hope of childish things at the young age of 8. He started working prominently as a runner for the Hammond estate.

He an invalid boy to those with great fortune, learnt the very act of tuition by ones hand. He profected his handwritings and his ability to listen to ones word.

Now 20 something years later he sits as a poet under the tree near the river bank.

I am quite the fool.

I gave him my heart; even when my mind wonders with doubt.

I know that I’ll probably end up with my heart broken.

I often tell myself “it’s better to love than to never have loved at all”.

I see him standing there, confidence eases out. some may see him as smug. However, I don’t. Oh my poor heart; so fresh and new, so inexperienced and naive.

I’m truly the fool.

The dusty knight of ones old delight.

Blossoms in a all so bright.

Room of time where things all hide. in memories of the old times.

Brought to surface once again. a frail handshake of ones old friend.

Brought a pale face colour again. in ones heart it starts again.

I should jump off a bridge or step out in the road. Because death is better , I won't make it on my own.

No matter how hard I try , I feel like a failure, me not in the world may make it better.

I'm trying to not have these thoughts and become better but I'm possessed by dark.

By. She, the hooded Crow 🐦‍⬛