The Pensive Carrion Crow

Nothing speaks volumes like the written word,
to sit down and commence the reading of a book,
it is a weighty task that sinks the mind into a vase,
like an old coach to a tired soon-to-be-sleeper.

Perhaps if I took all the letters I have written in my head,
and formed them out onto a firm paper in front of you,
(but we must be very ambiguous as to who, only natural),
they would together form the single word sorry.

Enough already, though there wasn't much written in the first place,
perhaps I feel sick in for thinking so, and so here I go (away)...

Bird, Black bird, pinioned feathers and fair ring about the foot,
standing, positioned in the middle of the alley-way,
cracked pavement, crook'd down the center,
vaulted drive, a river leading the way, wheels surrounding,
and you will fly upon the encroachment of the croaking thing,
hoping yet to return to your plunder, a bin labeled garbage,
waste management, you hail with a gleeful 'cauhw'!
you don't think of it that way, considered not to think at all.

It's all in a perspective.