We are the ravens: the mysterious, the adored, the companion of poets. We are the revered, the feared, the bringer of omens. We sit there, high on our perch. Quietly contemplating our beauty. Comparing the creatures that pass beneath us. Watching. Judging. Proud.
Yet beneath that glamour, we are nothing more than scavengers. We are opportunists. Not willing or capable to acquire our daily bread on our own. We wait. We watch. Then we eat the scraps. We feed on the garbage this world offers us, not realizing that what we eat is waste. Then again, maybe we do realize that. But we eat it anyway.
Sad, don't you think? That all our beauty, all our greatness, are nothing but a glamour. And after the spell has been stripped away, we are exposed as the filthy creatures that we are. This realization has caused me to pause. I cannot fight my own nature. What was it that I had to do with this thought? I learned. I became wiser. But to what end? This revelation has caused me to despair. And I wandered. And I sought. And I cried out into the night. But the cold merely swallowed my voice. The darkness just swallowed me whole.
Then I saw the King.
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