Catharsis

There's murder in the air. The night going black with gathering crows drips red deep into a bloody sunset- The sky grows dim with a dark presence, like storm clouds crowding the firmament into a destructive, yet cleansing force to be reckoned with- The light of day slowly changes, into something all-new, as if awaiting to be borne again- Distant thunder rumbles as the crows gather with wild caws- The clouds go red, like blood being shed, with the weight of the immensity of life spent, while the crows try to muster enough courage to fly into the unknown night- It just may kill them, but they will go, in storm or calm; either way it shall be a salvation, an atonement, and something old must die-