MURDER

Crow does not wish it were Kingfisher.

Or for feathers red instead of black.

Never will it sing like a Wood Thrush.

Nor does it care to.

But we do: care.

Caring is our curse.

Like a cawing in the mind,

the desire to be different,

to be other than who we really are,

haunts us like a Shadow we peck at,

until the shade wakes 
and eats us. Only then

the self, that wants us dead,

finally dies.