Patriarchy

A group of crows is called a Murder. 

It was not a group of crows that afflicted her.

But a group of men who weren’t listeners.

The men garrulous in banter, yet failed as observer.

They rambled and trampled on flowers anticipating to prosper.

I could’ve warned them, the flock of men flying pridefully high.

Yet to this day I’m glad I stayed on the ground, away from the sky.

The sky was never meant for me, I’d like to say why.

For things without wings, the sky for them was a lie.

Knowing your place in the world is how you get by.

The ground where things grow is where I like to stay.

Not because the sky is too big, scary or too far away.

It’s that flowers who are not grounded wither, turn gray.

The men you see have been lead astray.

Believing they have wings, oh the dismay.

And desire for strength as the Murder displays.

Unaware they belong where we all must lay.

So we watched the murder from down below.

We watched how they devoured, the crows.

With not a chance, the men did not know.

To some it was justice, or even a show.

A tragedy for me, when it happened long ago.

All things come to an end, or at least hit a plateau.

Men in the sky, now would know, it’s always best to stay low.

-K.R.