They all sit in silken
huddle, of soft ebony cloud,
Within dim shadows of
cawing, discussing out loud,
About tombstones,
graveyards & things of the night,
Of things we´ll never
understand & of life out of sight.
That rendezvous of ravens,
all plotting & sly planning,
With obsidian eyes spying
& forever, death scanning,
With their wind whispered
feathers & glinting jet nebs,
They are guardians of
lost worlds & friends of the dead.
Those black ravens are
now gathering, to discuss you & I,
All squawking & dark talking,
before away they shall fly,
Plumed rendezvous of onyx,
now all huddled together,
Omens afoot upon whisperings,
of black ebony feather.
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