Matthew C. Nelson


The smoke of war, the scent of blood,
these things exist where both sides stood.
The bloody dead, alas absent of care,
their haunting bones lay agape, eyes a stare.

The silence of the field is broken now,
as the wind fills with the ravenous crow.
Crows descend en masse, choosing no favorite,
sampling both sides, devouring as they see fit.

The bloodied husks, do they pick and pry,
hoping to find their favorite – a dead man’s eye.
As legend goes, great gifts can be spied,
when one devours the departed’s eye.

For with these secrets that only the crows know,
the mysteries of life and death are finally exposed.
The ultimate spoil, for those that try, is the
mastery of flesh, immune to death’s buzzing of flies.