The crows' calls are like screams in the morning,
Ringing out their ugly warnings,
The clouds so dark it's like a new day isn't dawning,
No waking up to stretching and yawning.
The somber mood is a memory block,
The lulling security of constant clock:
Tick
Tock
Tick Tock
A confusion spreading like a dust-fine rash,
Turning thoughtful men's actions thoughtless and brash,
Bringing any seeds of joy down to death with a crash.
A poem with no meaning filters through the screen,
A young person's voice high, clear and keen.
A fountain of knowledge from us yet to be seen.
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