Black Crows
10/5/2004
It’s as if death, himself, were following me
Thorns of my roses
Draw the blood from my wrists
The drink no longer satisfies
The pain never subsides
Death lingers on my lips
Yet pushes back not ready to eclipse
Death lingers in little pills
Yet I wake sore and tired
This red rose is turning black
It’s leaves withering still
It’s thorns shriveling from dryness
Death comes in many forms
Until alas today
Black crows follow me round about
As if death, himself, were following me
For I did not give my life away to him
For I did not place the poison on my tongue
And swallow it whole
For I would not hand over my soul
Now death follows me round about
Pecking at my soul
Tearing to tear my soul apart
About the Creator
Alisha Wilkins ✒️🦋🖋️
Come sit with me awhile. Writing is my favorite kind of magic—conjuring dark worlds, forbidden souls, and stories that haunt long after the last page. Lately, I’ve wandered deeper into psychology, the mind, and the shadows within us all...
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