There the storm, a hail of crows,
Line to walk at morgue in rows.
Blacken eyes consume by thought,
No glee or dread such life to wrought.
And if the few, attain the mind,
Second guess that leaves them blind.
To lost the path, that’s the way,
Upon the storm, that’s here, all day.
Shroud that come to what of may,
Not by slight to disarray.
For here, that dwell, among the light,
Guise in morbid, crows of night.
When last to gaze to fade the rain,
Just common trick to fool the pain.
For none are left, that’s its end,
Let such dream drown the end.