By John David Wolverton

I am but fruit  
to the Crows of Misfortune  
that hunt on jeering wing.  
My prayers cannot fell them,  
nor drive them afar,  
their dark forms swarm above me  
with reaping hook frowns  
purple tongues writhing  
with caustic derision.  

Yet I am beyond them  
when I shelter within,  
nurturing,  
as a seed takes life,  
from the flames at its heart.  

I'll leave no footprints fleeing, 
in the dust of your hard earth
But in the shadows of netherwhere,  
where the heart only sees,  
I'll mend myself  
in a secret fire.  

John David Wolverton