The Carrion Crow’s Cart

Here is a snack sized piece of poetry that’s been rumbling about my brain…

Flying in on dead black wings,
Screeching songs like a mad man sings,
Preparing a harvest for,
The Carrion Crow’s Cart.

Picking bowel and brains galore,
They’ve been here twenty times or more,
Gathering a heap for,
The Carrion Crow’s Cart.

Hiding in cellars and under the beds,
Dragging our blankets up over our heads,
Avoiding becoming fodder for,
The Carrion Crow’s Cart.

Writhing in fever with skin gone bad,
Losing all the friends we’ve had,
Providing ample tributes for,
The Carrion Crow’s Cart.

I’m not sure if there’s going to be any more or not, but it was one of those quick gruesome tales that jump your brain and demand release or promise to cause creeptastic dreams. There was a visual image that prompted this, and I’ve shared it for you to enjoy, but don’t be terribly disappointed by how mundane it seems – obviously it has the secret power to be very disturbing.

 Crow Pulling Cart

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