a mad crow quietly dreams in silence
of a world very different than ours
where there is no meal without violence
and you can even count the long hours

there is grey and mist wide and far
shadows of crooked trees and prey
as black as a charcoal ashen'd heart
and the nights never melt into the days

the river flows white and with heads
delicious eyes dyed in blood and lies
only smoke comes out of every breath
where there's no grave everyone has died

gingerbread little huts spanning the hills
and children playing with mud and chains
by the old dark woods where a pond fills
as silently as it is hollowed once again

the mad crow spans into the night sky
shrieking with tears of a very small baby
claws clenched and a throat that is dry
it glides in the air crooked and patiently

a mad crow quietly sleeps in silence
in dreams that his eyes hath sowed
there is a kid watching, cold and silent
reaching out for it's tiny little throat