The Murder

As I sit in my rusted cage

With squeaky hinges

I see a murder

Black as death

Fitting, isn’t it?

A score or more of them

With glassy, beady eyes

I wonder what they’re thinking

Or if they think at all

As they sit waiting.

All of them are waiting

For signs of weakness.

I’ll show them! Or is it, it?

As I slowly lift my arm,

I watch those glassy eyes follow.

Yes. I believe they are one entity

They are-a murder.

They-it, sits patiently

Waiting, waiting.

No longer does it rise when I scream.

No longer does it stir

When I rattle these rusty hinges.

It just sits there

Waiting.

The murder is waiting.

But all too soon my spirit weakens.

As hunger claws upon my flesh,

Fatigue claws upon my bones,

And thirst consumes my very sanity

I see the murder

Waiting, patiently.

But now there’s something else!

I see it in those eyes!

An eagerness- carnivorous and deadly.

The murder gets ready to take flight.

And as I weakly wave

What used to be an arm

I know it’s of no use to battle

The murder.

It knows. Its time has come.

And with a caw that shakes my neighbor

Hanging just like me

The murder flaps its greasy wings and rises

A heathen’s shadow.

I welcome it to my humble home

A rusted cage with squeaky hinges.

I slowly rise to meet my guest.

How ironic really

For a flock of birds that feasts on human flesh

To be called a murder.

Thank you Mr. Edgar Allan Poe for the inspiration for that one. I have no idea what i was thinking when i wrote this, only that it A) sounds cool and B) is probably the best poem i've written. Also, a little explanation: During the middle ages, many prisoners were hung in cages and left to die of starvation and lack of water. Many would have their bones picked clean by a flock of crows or ravens, also known as a murder.