Murder of Crows

It's a Murder of Crows that gather on her grave

I come here often my soul to save, should she

return perhaps she will forgive my sins as I

continue to live. I met her in the fall of 69

I was young, she was fine. She stared at me,

her raven hair black as night, her eyes red ready 

to question her thin-lipped smile a gash across 

her pale skin, her nose shaped like a bleak beak

She whispered only should she speak.

The Congress of her behavior, the shattering of

her cries, a hundred black birds flying, a nursery

rhyme about a bitter pan of humble pie.

I  read her the verses quothing Poe dreary

forlorn, I held her cold hands in the cold snow

I sung the dirge full of contemptuous woe

I promised to leave her, I even tried to go.

I walked her casket out of the gray morn

I curse under my breath, I cursed the day she

was born. I held her throat in my old hands

I swore that I loved her, I pleaded her ghost

to understand, I took her to wife, I held her

closer still before she took her life.