Softly, but surely, comes the soft cry,
Rain begins, birthing rivers,
Trembling, filled with bewailment,
The crow lands quietly,
“Come hither…”
It would whisper,
“Give thy soul to me…”
Alas, in the last moment,
The crow is startled,
Flying far to a distant time,
Awaiting thy fateful day,
When thou approaches the day of thy doom.

What, you wonder,
Could have frightened the creature?
Then, on soft footfalls,
Comes a figure,
Glowing in their mystery,
Casting your demise back,
Again and again,
“Remain”, it whispers,
“In this realm divine.”

“How can this be,”
You plea,
“When ‘tis chamber after chamber of torture?”
The response soothes,
“All shall reveal itself in due time.”

With time,
Comes cheer and sorrow,
All left for ‘morrow,
Lost in the confusion,
This land of confusion.

- Jay M
January 22nd, 2019