Catharsis Poem by Smoky Hoss

There's murder in the air.
The night going black with gathering crows
drips red
deep into a bloody sunset-
The sky grows dim
with a dark presence,
like storm clouds crowding the firmament
into a destructive, yet cleansing force
to be reckoned with-
The light of day slowly changes, into
something all-new, as if awaiting to be borne again-
Distant thunder rumbles
as the crows gather with wild caws-
The clouds go red, like blood being shed,
with the weight of the immensity of life spent,
while the crows try to muster enough courage
to fly into the unknown night-
It just may kill them, but they will go,
in storm or calm; either way it shall be
a salvation, an atonement,
and something old must die-