Sweet is the breath of the black crow,

red with the flesh dug fresh from the grave…

cruel words are spoken, with lips cold as snow,

silence has woken tears from the brave.

The salt is clinging darkly to the breeze,

the sea glittering with white-silver foam…

the sunlight has fallen within the thick of trees,

filtered through eyes as silver as chrome…

Dew is the beaded wet shroud of liquid,

diaphanous upon the palest green leaves…

and dark are the eyes beneath the soft lid,

the worst kind of love is one that believes…

Though romance is bleak and bittersweet still…

I believe…I live for the goodbye’s kill.

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