Glyph Writer Poet Quatrain

The Crows Fly By

When dusk sets in
And darkness takes hold; 
When night winds howl
And it starts to get cold,

That's when the crows fly by.

When the moon creeps up,
And casts ominous shades
Of silver-struck shadows
Over deep forest glades,

Under darkness, the crows fly by. 

The bell tolls midnight 
And time stands still;
You hear scarcely a sound
But for Whippoorwills,

That's when the crows fly by.

Through swathes of mist
A graveyard lies;
Grim and forboding,
Under pitch-black skies,

That's where the crows fly by. 

Footsteps ahead,
You quickly hide
Behind a grave,
Safe out of sight.

Quietly, the crows fly by.

A mysterious man
-Who's dressed like a tramp-
Shuffles right by
With a shovel and lamp,

Overhead, the crows fly by.

You watch in horror 
As he stops by a grave;
He sets down his lamp
And starts digging away.

Watching, the crows fly by

After awhile he stops,
And shambles off;
It takes a few minutes 
To collect your thoughts,

Cawing, the crows fly by.

Curiosity gets the better,
And the coast looks clear; 
You sneak to the grave 
And in you peer,

Circling, the crows fly by.

An empty hole 
Is all you see;
You wonder what
The purpose could be,

Meanwhile, the crows fly by.

Looking up, 
You gasp in shock-
Your name on a tombstone,
Outlined in chalk,

Around you, the crows fly by.

Paralyzed with terror,
In both body and mind;
Too late you hear
The footsteps behind,

Noisily, the crows fly by.

A push, and you fall, 
Deep down below;
Stunned, bewildered,
And with no place to go.

Above, the crows fly by.

Dirt starts flying 
And your vision fades,
As you are buried alive 
In your very own grave.

But still, the crows fly by.

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