Flitting.
Ever flitting.
The Raven doth fly.
Dripping.
Ever dripping.
The Raven doth cry.
Shattered.
Ever shattered.
The Raven doth sigh.
Smiling.
Ever smiling.
The Raven doth lie.
Helping.
Ever helping.
The Raven doth try.
Drowning.
Ever drowning.
The Raven doth reach for the sky.
For who cares for that which has been broken before it had the chance to sing it's crowning song?
I know not you.
Not even I.
Most do not care.
Few would understand.
Even fewer would try.
Many are disappointed.
More expected nothing.
Most would not care if the Raven were unable to fly.
The Raven Sees.
Not many can.
They know not of her third eye.
But that left untouched,
Will eventually shrivel and die.
Or give a war cry.