at the burgeoning cusp of summer sits the raven on a bed of rose petals

feverishly guarding the bright days with beak and talon at the ready to swipe

spring dies a cancerous death falling away into burning misery for one alone

the raven cares not for sentimentality it seeks to fly to fuck to rend

summer cares not for blooming but for blossoms to carry it’s selfish scent song