I and my ravens waltz on top of a roof late at night. The cool busuling breeze blows as we sway. Every step, every move, is set in time, like the drum in its line. Slowly, ever slowly we dance, inching closer to the god forsaken ledge. When all at once, like fate had interjected. I see a sultry, saint, sparrow, its wings white as snow. The time seems to freeze as it bellows close to me. With talons  so gentle, unlike the ravens black feet, It guides me away from the fated ledge. Then as quick as she came, the mundane, melancholy Of time returns, leaving me in defeat. And with the metronome of madness, a song begins to play unsweetened, and I and my ravens rinse and repeat.