Fridge Poetry 17 - Lineup of Lost Souls

I see through the shadow shroud of

death.

My skin is that of a crow

who speaks of lonely truths,

about vulgar lady luck

and arid, empty-hearted devotees who are

forever damned to be only but

melancholy echoes of quieted thunder,

ebbing character,

and black hole hearts screaming with

red moon fever.

From my mortal tongue can raven language come.

There is nothing sacred here.