From the window the sky empties to nothing

and the murder of crows, with their ravished beaks,

groan for the hollowed inhabitants of the passing day.



Insatiable sorrow, with its draughty halls, sent a gleaming sword to consume the passing madness only to be

plunged into a diminishing perspective.



Inside I trawl the motionless ravines, a twisting hatred that bubbles from under the steaming, scarlet brook

while the incessant rain washes away the gnawing of your imprisoned eyes.



Anger, with it's steaming arrows, cuts through the dank air

dissecting the worn out guilt of October's echoes that drip sadly

from the dead branches.



but before they cold leave

they spent a cold summers eve

tending the knotted despair

of a ravaged corpse.