N I N E o f S W O R D S
Suffering from anguish, fear, anxiety, guilt, uncertainties in the night.
Stormcrows herald impending dissolution
with voices cawing raucous absolution
round and round and spiraling ever near
one future sought - one future feared
The funnel of the sky stretches up to the heavens; an ominous tower of storms with but the hope and glimmer of light high above at the eye of turmoil. "Come to me, come with me," the voice of the Stormcrows whispers to him from nearby. "Let me guide you through." With anxious eyes, he gazes upwards, away, oblivious to the proffered guidance through the night of the soul. He clutches sheathed sword close for security, rather than grasping bright blade aloft to light the way!