This was something I came up with one day, never finished, then went back and finished. The story of the Crow's Nest. I left it open if anyone wants to write something similar.
Night falls, black night falls.
Rest for the new day, rather lack.
Above the tree, sticks piled, unseen at dusk:
The hidden mystery of the crow’s nest.
The child of the shrouded black, sickened, malnourished,
prays healthy, happy thoughts.
The mother, emotional. The father, less.
He leaves to seek the savior seed, silent in surrounding,
hidden in foresight shadow.
Near the nest of woe is the savior’s seed:
a fertile till of crop unborn.
The crow nears the seed, approaches one without haste.
Easy come, easy go.
Hey! The guardian speaks,
Although bound to his stake
intimidates its robber, to no avail.
Scavenger! His stitches rip in rage,
Powerless in his endeavors.
The crow negotiates:
"Your anger is just, but my actions must,
For my treasure is slim, its future is dim.
Yours is abundant, with hope so radiant
That with the sun flocks the horizon’s gradient.
This simple seed, to me, my savior seed,
conquers he, my treasure’s vitality.
If it no more, a sight so sore
even gruesome shall abhor.”
The guardian rebukes the crow:
“I can thrive without your pain,
for you not know I, during ages of rain.
To this stake I am bound for eternity
as your flocks of darkness freely journey
across plain, after plain, after plain.
And yet you question my disdain?
Here, however, you ask for charity
when you trample over prosperity.”
The crow replies:
“I am free to shed my troubles,
but with it, my home is left to rubble.
The storm of many sorrows shared
by my son who lost his other pair.
He, like her, caws to death,
and this seed will give him another breath
so that his mother can squawk goodbye
and at ease his body shall lie.”
The guardian screams:
“Let your kinship burn at the stake!
So like me, in the depths of hell you wake!
Weep for every passing moon
and may you drown in the Devil’s Typhoon!
I shall remain in this “sacred field”
and have these crops become my shield!
An umbrella of foliage I shall wear
to guard against the waves of despair!”
The crow, now desperate, seizes the seed.
His only regret: the savior seed.
The guardian’s clamors echoes around the world,
easing the saddened air with rage.
A sonic wave of squawking pain
muffles the anger, freezes the air.
Upon his return to the hearth of lament
the shrouded black became a feathered bundle.
His heart was stone, and the savior seed,
a speck of anguish, esurience’s till.
The kin of crows fell to the Devil’s Inferno,
wings spread wide in surrender.
The crows lacked a life to live,
and no longer sought the seed of sanctity.
The guardian still fettered to his field
grew an umbrella to mask his grief.
Such is the story of the crow’s nest.