Poe’s crows

have found repose

closer to my heart…

 
 

Write flight

as breath slows

shading light to dark…

 
 

Muse flows

a fine wine

a finish inky blood…

 
 

Death makes

create ache

in seeming endless flood…

 
 

But Crows know

the Muse goes

when her Rider dies…

 
 

Quill stills

but Life will

live in words of scribe.

©Karen Robiscoe