Crows in a murder ate the sky of all its color.
She could not see the Sun past tomorrow.
The world was not the world then, but an Inferno.
Owls in a parliament ruled the dusk from several stories.
“There is no Sun,” she told herself, “There won’t be a morning.
” Her soul was confined then, confined in Purgatory.
A dove could be seen in the shape of the Moon.
She was illuminated by its light, falling in a swoon.
All she had left was hope she’d find Paradise soon.
--Raymond A., Adult
