In shadowed black,
On whispered wind,
Amongst the trees,
A screeching din.

The ravens fall,
They eat its eyes,
The hollowed man,
Beneath darkened skies.

His voice still comes,
It screams its fear,
Its misery
From a rotted year.

And there I sit,
I watch, I see,
As his eyeless sight,
Is turned on me.

His fingers curl,
They dig beneath.
He moves himself
Before my feet.

With empty eyes,
An empty head,
He stares at me,
Although he's dead.

And feathered things,
They come to mock,
They watch my gaze,
Its frozen shock.

The worms crawl in,
The worms crawl out,
They eat his tongue,
Infest his snout.

The earth takes hold,
It sucks him under.
New flowers grow
On rotted plunder.

A truth is seen
In this decay.
That life moves forward,
Come what may.

From the metaphorical desk of clever gypsy Knave, Maerwen Hibana.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Daedalan, in the year 607 AF.