_{Image by Alexa from Pixabay}

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Carrion Soul

In this rooms dim light, shadows flit.
Outside, I hear the ragged sycamore
it's wavering bows, groan and whip -
gloaming seeps in at the door.

Standing stones cast shadows singing
the gorse grows still upon the moor,
a cold and callow crow comes winging
black beady eyes and curving claw.

The carrion soul of deaths presence
that clips my breath in closing throat,
its jagged caw proclaims my sentence
to fade away with the dying motes

of twilight through this empty room.
A stain of black on musty grey,
the crow sits patient in the gloom
waiting and watching my decay.

In my bed I toss and turn,
a worm ripped out of darkened earth.
My sweat pocked brow burns
as I shiver in this nightmare berth.
I’m waiting to wake, the crow it sits
and hops and flits.

I’m rotting, my limbs are flaking,
but still it sits then hops and flits.

My breath is shaking, acid rakes my aching
bowels but still, unnerving
it hops and flits.

It plucks my eyes from walnut shells,
while standing stones and sycamore
rock and groan in fallow fells
and everything fades in gore.

Happy Halloween!

All media used is CC license or my own.

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