Corvus

Brooding atop a cracked stone cross, the raven roosts in solitude... Ivory remnants of former souls drift restlessly beneath unkempt black soil, But the bird is their remorseful conqueror, And the skeletons can only emit wails and mutters From their detaining graves... Ghastly fog slinks between the kingdom of tombstones, And the raven mourns for Death’s victims, the decaying phantoms that wander so endlessly, on and on and on… He lies in contrition for his own occupation, for his own lost spirit, conjoined so closely with those lurking underneath his talons.