In The Sack

Times how many do you hold out your hand?
This shaddow I, and the me of self, asking.
No replay...they die in another world,
There is voiceless dead, where heads count.

Rounding window, wings flap and fold.
Time passes, the old die slowly,
My friends, my love, the memories.
Blood, flesh, bones, weeping bodies sold.

The sound of dirt shifting...in fresh grave.
Real, asleep of death, where worms banket the meal.
In the taste of life, the corporal life half eaten,
"Dark this night of death", crows Black Raven.

Gnarled fingers grasp, jaws nash at thick cuts.
Here nothing go to waist.
Edgar's bitting edge, the horror's rich efficiency plan,
Poe's somber, sober, godforsaken, pecks on busting guts.