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
