Crow

Blessèd is and blessèd be
Upon the knife of which I speak,
This blood contorts its shape to form
A wilt of feather and raven beak.

There, within the writhèd palace,
In a chamber, here forlorn,
Was the perch with which I burdened,
Beckoned bird to roost this morn.

There he lay, sad, on the ground,
Slight of sound, and yearning more
Than I, myself, could ever yearn
In any of the suits I wore.

Then is when I took the knife,
And begged, "Prithee, raven,
Get up and sit upon this perch
I crafted with mine own craven

Hands that I had never gotten
To work upon to work for me!"
He refused, I stabbed him thusly
And ended the grief he couldn't speak.