The raven's cage was honey,
(from either one thirty-two,
or was it one thirty-three?)
Till he broke to fly to blue.

But in his break, he mistook
The blue as the color red.
Far flung from mounts of fair look,
He flapped as one near the dead.

Strange ways are the fallen preys
As the raven fell earthward.
For soon the blue of past Mays,
Bore the brunt of the bluebird.

The fallen flight of fools' gain,
Left a beak to peck his wings.
In repetitions of pain,
He laments his own failings.

For in found fruits of favor,
Its sweet succor was complete.
Yet he chose to find savor,
In that which was his conceit.