His soul was a fresh piece of bread
Free at first from hate and dread
It was soft and sweet and freshly baked
With a raw sort of purity that cannot be faked
As he got older it began to get dry
Moisture was sucked from it in the tears he'd cry
Yet, however dry was his soul
Atleast he could say that the bread was still whole
But that too changed because soon came a day
There came a black crow and chipped a part of it away
It's eyes were greedy fiery rings
A shadow was cast by its wings
It's beak would pierce into the bread's skin
Everyday leaving it more crusty and thin
But there was a deadlier predator, hidden from its eyes
A fierce eagle in a mere sparrows disguise
That fake friend would spread the bread with honey to make it more sweet
Only to make it more pleasurable to eat
Everyday another piece of bread would be killed
Leaving holes that alone could never be filled
If maybe he had a friend
Perhaps the torment would end
His soul was a crust of bread
Pecked away until it left him dead