by Nick Gisburne
Her crows see nothing, not a fleck of fear
Their queen, insane, unstable, will not flinch
Two cold, hypnotic eyes enslave them here
To fly, to fight, to feed, to peck and pinch
She breathes, in verse, a mistress of their song
A whisper to the birds on every rock
Within her waves of witchery, they throng
Imprisoned in a damned, demented flock
Ambition, greed, too murderous to break
Unfathomable malice is her bait
With seven evil armies she will take
The prize for which she will no longer wait
Her prey, her victims, small, pathetic, weak
Will never see the mercy that they seek
