Poetry 5

Crows


The black angels of this world, I doubt thou knew
the Murder's daily flights are far from few.
Around the cemetery treads and tread do you,
without visions of the black angels far from view.
Perching and gliding, flying and perching spies on you
carefully walk your path on the day you now rue.

O! The Murder! The Murder! Who could? Who knew
about the Murder, the Murder that looms about you?
The steady pace... Haste! Haste quickly! And haste to!
the edge of the cemetery, where no one else knew.
Be careful the grave beds or one will own you
because you thought not even the Murder knew.

They fly, they perch. They circle and glide above you
while yours beats beats faster the drink of Crimson hue.
Be still thy HEART! Be still thy HAND! Tis no reason to choose
the fear O! Fear of the Murder that is the essence of you!
But why you? Can't the Murder another unhappy soul choose?
No! Thou hath caught its eye, too late, is too.

Walking, had walked this path you to
hide, endark, yourself seclude.
Hid yourself here to writhe thy hand in blood, so soon
to rid pain of your life, and rejoice it to the Moon.
Thy Evil intent, thy Evil do, can't go without taken Due,
a Due, you wish the Murder had not been to.

But the Murder was. The Murder is. The Murder will, too
bloody be to so, so, so easily be quietly subdued.