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Past the valley of death where the garden grows,
Have you ever laid eyes on a murder of crows?
From the skies they scavenge, in the trees they wait,
To consume you entirely and seal your fate.
Mercy and compassion they have but naught,
For they are optimally pleased when suffering is wrought.
These beasts bask in the flames of Hell's deepest fires,
Feared even by Satan, they feed only their desires.
When late at night, under the moon,
Their sight prophesizes that death will come soon.
See them you will, but try as you might,
You cannot escape once within their sight.
They will circle in flight above where you loom,
Messengers of evil; heralds of doom.
The beasts descending, once on nigh,
Will release their detestable cry.
They will peck at you from your head, down to your toes,
They will peck out your eyes, your ears and your nose.
Once your vision is gone, and you begin to bleed,
The birds will hasten in sating their need.
Beaks as sharp as razor blades,
Will tear your skin, as your life force fades.
Your intestines, once bunched, will begin to pour;
But as painful as it seems, there is still more.
Some will fly away with pieces of your heart,
While others finish tearing you apart.
Too dead to feel, you will begin to realize,
That they have no heart, but cold, dead eyes.
As the last of your body rots, and the midnight bells toll,
They will unanimously destroy your soul.
Left as a shell, you can only roam,
To watch the earth pass by in its spirited loam.
Though you have been shackled, and are now in despair,
You can no longer warn those who dare,
To go past the valley of death, where the garden grows,
Where they might stumble upon a murder of crows.
Written by Dubiousdugong