The Crow's pitch wings
Glide through darkness
Cutting through fog
Like each feather is a blade
Slicing the air
As if slicing my skin
His eyes red
Infused with the dripping from my veins
He soars above a paint-chipped steeple
Perching on an ebony cross
He observes the soil below him
Gaze landing on a single figure
The Crow keeps in his sight
A bleeding body
Staggering towards the final resting place
Who could it be, on this heavy night
But the troubled soul of a human
Toppling down onto a crumbling grave
A life soon to be taken
To ascend to the moon above behind him
A being
Breathing
Breathing
Breathless