Because the metaphor is so bitter,
tastes like pine needles in your mouth,
makes you blither,
sucks all the saliva, all your precious
bodily fluids, out of every pore,
leaves you empty,
wishing for a port of entry
that allows escape,
promotes entropy,
releases guilt and bile,
resentments harbored
for too long a while.
Ask not for whom the crow flies,
it flies toward you,
eats your liver,
makes you a believer
in your evil ways,
makes your days a drudge
condemns you to judge
your faults and blemishes
acquired through skirmishes
with reality and your view
that you’re fit to be
a decent human being
rather than a nit
with half a wit,
a ne’er-do-well
destined for hell.
This is the real reason
we don’t eat crow.
All Rights. Charlie Brice.
