Fable For Thought

The crows took flight in murders as a murder took place on the concrete plane just below their cadaverous claws' clutches. An archaic creature convulses in the back bathroom with a page missing in his magazine, a life missing in his schema. The scene of the transgression and the recession of a man turned the progeny of agony is nothing more than a scene of digression;
Man backing into his finite animate existence. With new invigoration of his destination outside the confines of this bathroom of sorrow, his tears bunk from the thoughts of tomorrow as his eyes buckle under undone deeds. The pedal extremities in the vicinity of a scarlet puddle dip their toes into the ink of the book of life and the tips of their beaks have a driblet left that drops upon Hera's hand as she sweeps her presence across the horizon to Poseidon to wash away this deed. The dead erects and directs his heed towards the need to succeed in finding the seed that has yet to bleed the blood that won a battle that doesn't flatter Aries in the least bit; this time it is war. A lurching launching out of the churches parking lot leaves room for examination; the one building with a light on. This ember to show that life has sustained a fire in the existence of rain; this beacon of reckoning summoning a resonating ring of turmoil in the mindscape of a brain searching for vengeance along with reason. A silent soldier holds his composure; hardly within reasoning. His bathroom a vacuum for sounded, reverberating the bass of a slamming door shaking the floor within his stable base. The first level is broken when the bathroom door swung open. Like a pendulums first swing that stings those who notices its slowly crawling down. Each step calculated in hate and brought to you in part by fate. A deed that was done with righteous blood was dumb enough to not have won. Fetaled in the corner, collective with his self but not thought, the first Russian doll's body began to drop. The second one, the bathroom in entirety was entirely in the hands of the man who shouldn't have survived. Eyes widen and sadden as the blood drips like a faucet from the fountain of life. The patter overpowering the panting canted to religion but candid in the face of Zeus who gives this walk it's roar; each step like thunder. These boots have seen tragedy and the saddening thought didn't stop the assailant from the assailable fool.
The door opened as the moral hit him, Don't start what you can't finish.