Alexia Whisler
A horizon stained with smoke
swirling from wings devoted
to choosers of the slain.
The gnawing of shields
has ended, and you
glide above war torn terrain
observing perished
warriors becoming chosen.
Screams of near death
quiver your black feathers
of those maimed
slipping their grip on
their dispatched souls.
Favored dead delivered
to the great hall
Valhalla, to feast
to fight, forever.
Your feast
bath of blood
yet remain of those
soaking the soil
empty of their souls.
You join a flock
those bearing the same
black pearl eyes
the same instinct
remains of death
to pick, to pluck
to plunder.
You, Raven
Swan of Blood
sink your talons in flesh
and feast on those
left behind by Valkyries
and clear the sea of blood.