A bird sits atop a thorned stem,
Devoid of any rose.

He drags his feet o’er the pricks,
Bleeding from his toes.

Chirping softly, accustomed to pain,
The last of those who chose.

Plagued by never-ending winter,
Chance came long ago.

When Raven swooped and spoke of ways
To end frosted throes.

With eyes that had no contact willed,
His words tainted prose.

The bird refused, shivering harder,
Decidedly apposed.

Yet his brazen friends, tempted by warmth,
Fought the sun with blows.

While he sat back upon his flow’r,
By fear surely froze.

He watched in horror as his brothers wings,
Became in ash reposed.

Realizing that unknown or not,
the Devil always knows.

When to spread your wings and when to
Keep them closed.

The bird who sat, his foot in red, the only
Left to rule the Crows.

Would trade his blood for one more touch,
Of his brothers’ clothes.

Haunting guilt from staying behind, in his dreams
He, with his friends, goes.

Then he’s awakened on the bench, as
Soft chirping arose.

A thorned stem sat by his feet,
Devoid of any rose.

He’s left gazing under his friends’ stones, where they lie,
Six feet below.