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Love is a bird,
like a dove on a pole,
followed closely behind,
by a black-feathered crow.

When this dove falls
and fall though it will,
the crow comes along
and eats up its fill.

This crow could have babies
and each one be sent,
off after doves
a lovers lament.

The crow could live long
but never have loved,
and never be as fine
of a bird as the dove.


Man, I write bitchin’ poems.

Posted on Wednesday, May 20, 2009 12:58 AM Other | Back to top

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