The Crow saw the buckshot rip into the street sign, warming up his feet time,
even creatures adapt to gunfire in this cold desert scene of mine.
All in a scheme to maintain a lifestyle we maintain dreamily,
This oasis in the deserts the last scenery seen by so many deceased.
We maintain secrecy, simply follow birds of prey to where the fallen lay,
they’re open wings signal spoils of wars laying in wait, ours to take.
Dig through soiled clothes and maimed bodies,
lost any sense of shame, oddly. That was long in the past.
Sometimes when I dig through empty pockets I laugh, no wonder they passed.
Some pray it will pass.. yet we know there’s no escape from the yellow gas,
it bellows fast from stacks with industrial privilege,
pay the toll until the cost reaches peaks of combustible limits.
Yet most fellows don’t last once you cast out the weak, watch em tragically bleed.
freezing in the elements and cold, lost souls are crows caws carried on a magical breeze,
their call grows adept and adapts to challenge extensive holes in the plot,
lasting in the noxious fumes, opening gateways lost inside toxic thoughts.
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