Silence

Crow

My soul is like that of a crow,

Mainly alone as it sails the heavens,

No place is home as I drift to and fro.

I do not fit in these environs.

The struggle is always onwards,

Always as a singular,

My heart spirals downwards.

My mind turned obscenely vulgar.

Forever flying into the wind,

Never with it like all others,

Feeling as of one who has sinned,

Against all his brothers.

Dissimilar in every way,

No use trying to fit in but,

I cannot do as I may,

It sickens to the gut.

Love evades with a passion,

The curse of a drifter,

That is bled with this dissension,

That always leads to disaster.

Till the achievement of the innermost goal,

There shall be no ken of love,

Predestined to be a lonely soul,

With the aspirations of a dove.