Well past midnight,the horizon rife with the stench of dawn,

Witness, the rich black silhouette of leaves on this crooked wood,

A visage of fertility,

Here cometh the harbinger of the morn,

Unveiling what lies under comforting lies,

A Skeleton, raven adorned, sits stiller than cold death,

A dead mother nurtures and grows naught but crows,

A ripple in the air and chaos comes forth as wings, dark as a new moon, take flight,

Silent now, the winds unmoving and the corpse stands bare,

Anticipating the return of these prodigal birds of prey, unholy spawns, 

For they provide the most sacred of gifts,

For they provide this delusional stiff an illusion of life.