The Muse of Immolation
Black wings are beating a sharp tattoo,
A-tattering on your skull.
A raven is perched on all of you
There is: a bone-white hull.
The love of your youth, she floats in mist.
Your triumphs and brave defeats
And manhood expire. No dreams exist.
Just bones, where the black wing beats
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2010
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