the crows narrated his approach
as if devising his doom
but scatter to springs crisp air
as he drew near
crying out as they took to wing
an odd forlorn song that crows speak
in the front yard he pauses in the wild weeds and litter
he pushes open the door
and cool dark silences greet him
he steps inside and a crow lands on the lawn
its strange eye leveled at him
inside the house he lay on the stained mattress
with the full weight of his own mind on him
restless he spins on the sheets and
wrestles the blanket for answers it dose not contain
eventually he just sits by the grey stain of a window
and watches the slow clockwork precision that
night consumes day like a glutton with dinners three fold
night is stillness in the house
he sits on the front step barefoot among the
leaves cast aside by the living world
each a unique face gone dark by deaths hand
gathered here by twisting winds
to find comfort in mutual decay
like parched lips feeling for the condensation of souls
lain out for burial
the dead are wet leaves stacked in the heart
sweep them up and tenderly carry them to pyre
release me from this earthly tomb
in the grey of morning
he walks barefoot still across the lawn
decorated with litter and weeds
to the broken fence
when a single crow
utters its soulful cry
the dead are wet
release them from this earthly tomb