Crow

the stone is dull on these primitive arrows,
but they still pierce my feathered flesh.
the drawstring creaks on this sloppy bow,
but it still manages to leave me enmeshed.

frantic caws as I fall,
unremarkable in life as in death.
the hands of fate I fail to stall,
ready to take my final breath.

oh little crow, unnoticed amongst similars
they'll never understand who you could have been.
your eggs will be born amongst sinners,
waiting for a bird to speak again.