The Raven Knows

I know.
Of course I know.
The raven told me long before the flames ever rose.

I’ve watched the way you move--
scooping up what isn’t yours,
wearing it like a borrowed skin,
calling it “inspiration”
as if the word could wash the theft from your hands.

You gather followers like shields,
send them out as weapons,
hide behind their noise
when the truth gets too close.

People call you“sis,”
as if the word were camouflage,
as if false kinship could soften
the hunger beneath your smile.

But I see you.
I see every stolen spark,
every mimicry dressed up as mastery,
every lie lacquered into a grin.

And I’ll say it plainly:
What you do festers,
and what follows you stinks of ruin.
And the fire you keep feeding
will one day burn only you.