I’m making a crow skull, on exactly this day 2 years ago i made my first poem. ask if you want a picture of the poem on the paper but for nowww-… ‘the Poor Crow’ in the forest deep a crow lies dead, Its body rotting, a sight to dread. But amidst the despair, Lavender, and mint, in the air, the crow Once Shared. Herbs that cleanse the “evil air” a play on the black plague’s gloom and pain, their sent strong, their power bold. there the Crow laid, stiff, and cold, it was time for him to say goodbye…but worst of it all, The Poor Crow, was only a week old.
