Dark, It Is
Black as pitch, the shadows rose.
Are they coming?
The eyes are cold and dead, but it knows.
Every wind blows for a reason,
The eagle said with a smile.
Maybe it wouldn’t, if it had something else to do.
The weapons of man do nothing to him.
This one who lurks there.
He is that which is most fair.
Even the Sun begins to dim.
Blacker still the night grows.
And every winter the paleness flows.
The capering silence roars.
The fool knows more than kings,
And Gods alike.
Murder comes to everyday,
And when it rains it pours.
