Member-only story
The Harbinger of Sacred Doom
An experience with mysteries of the crow.
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The Harbinger of Sacred Doom
She is one of the most frowned upon of the avians,
Because black and malevolence often come paired.
Just like her ebony avian attire,
Her eyes shine in pitch-black,
Which soak in the silver radiance of the Moon,
Metamorphosing into paired torches of Phosphoros,
Before which no malevolence escapes ensnarement.
She is the walker between worlds,
Perching where endings give way to beginnings —
She is the harbinger of untamed sacred doom.
She bears other wings, unseen,
Which pierce into depths of Tartarus,
Because her black eyes know no dark.
And so, the nexus of her wings are horseback,
On which alchemists may place their vocal articulations,
Before they are flown where no spacecraft can set foot,
Into chthonic depths where no sub-marine can dare dive.
