You outshine the darkest night,
your robe the pale moon.
A beauty unimaginable,
a crown of roses bloom.

The tender touch of moonlight,
is the love the sea adores.
A glittering fragrance of starry flowers,
I know they are only yours.

These words were composed,
like music of the richest colors.
For you alone and only you,
would I love like a mother.

I am not a stormy ocean,
yet feelings unravel as so.
Your untouched heart reverses,
and I hear their tales of woe.

Innocence like the wind,
it blows so swiftly away.
The genuine smile so eager to love,
is now clouded today.

Burning glory,
Of such I’ve never seen.
Warmth,
Of which I’ve only dreamed.
Such light,
To shine upon the sins.
Thick smoke,
To choke the loss to win.
Who wins?
They win.
White ash,
To remind of your decay.

Crows fly,
Their carrion play.
They clap,
A murderous parade.
They bleed,
Yet they don’t so who’s to say?
I say,
You say.
Who wins?
They win.
A pause.

The next day is still.
Marrow,
***** upon the hill.
Who knows,
What happened on that day?
The monument,
To remind the price to pay.
We’ll pay.
They’ll pay.
I say,
You say.
Who wins?
They win.
They always win.

Thy crows loiter on mornings
fever, blossom brightening to
thee. But when  petals awaken,
onyx lullabies tear each asunder.

Woeful of the beauty of years,
            thy fallen moments collect
like tattered curtains of life.
   Crows sing sirens of despair,
joyful of the passing beauty..

And still they look upon thee,
        no longer petals of years stand.
they wait till your stem of life wilts.
With but a moment of silence when all
has fallen, they bow, wings dispersing life.

Oh god we are so vulnerable, out in the open plains where people go to pray and mourn. Here there is no such thing as time, no such thing as God.

Next to a building of white wood slats, rising upwards, black tipped. Here I can reflect on my own sadness. My own to mourn. If how we met was anything less than bad timing I'd become everything good I've ever come across. But that wasn't how we ended up.

The cut out silhouettes of crows are still a cut out silhouette of ****** in this gray-scale graveyard beside a rusted worn down place of worship I cannot believe in a God so cruel as to let die our hearts or our bodies. All I hear is the wings of crows and the open air for miles around.

I’m like a knock-off Edgar Allen Poe
But instead of raving about a raven
I croon about a crow
Who comes a-fluttering
And I start my muttering
About I do not need savin’

There are the whispers that call the crows and these crows are numbered three. They are named Gullibility, Doubt and Misery

If ever a time you lose your strength or become lost amongst the pain, then these three crows will ensure you never find your way

Gullibility you see, with eyes as black as mud, has razor claws always red for he always draws first blood

Doubt is quite plain but with ruffled feathers greyed. Not so much the specialist, but is best amongst the plague

And finally swoops Misery, bloodied beak on black. The final move in a worn out soul, Death's merciful attack