Crows

Crows
I found myself, caught, tangled up, in Lucifer's
dream catcher.
Contrary to, what, one might,  assume.  
Even, the devil, sleeps.  
to my surprise, he dreamt of me.  
When I was a girl, I remember,
Sitting in Lafayette cemetery.  
Writing love letters, to Azazael.  
My heart, bled, words, onto parchment.  
Spilling, my darkest secrets, acting out, the hidden fantasies,  that long while, played through,  my head.
My desires, that were, unfathomable, among
my peers, I would sit there, in the company
of crows.  In peace, with the ominous,  comfort, of stillness, and piercing silence.  
I mourned, my own death.  With, the guilt.  
I had proclaimed, myself, a murderer.  
When,  I whited out, her name.  
I became, the ghost, haunting, myself.
Hell, had become,  my home.  
I had grown, too comfortable,  there.  
I had stayed there, for so long, that I started to decorate.  Writing my confessions.  
My dearest, Azazael, brought roses
to place,  on my grave.  
I could see, my tragedy, lingering,  in his smile.
My skin, defiled, by,  my own hand.  
The ghost, of my,  inner child, protesting.
Screaming,  inside my head.  
Haunting me, relentlessly, in her efforts.
An attempt, to cling,  to my innocence.  
Wasted, with my,  child like, dreams.  
I wore,  my depravities, like, a signature.  
He offered me, a fine Bourbon,
aged along, with my, memories.  
In exchange, for my,  allegiance.  
With,  every drink, I downed, my fantasies,
transformed,  into memories. I would create.
The crows would sing my eulogy
while he slept.  
Crowds, would gather, at stone monuments.
They wept tears, for their departed.  
No one,  cried for me.  
Only the black birds, with their,  melancholy
songs, paying tribute, to another,  dead poet.
I still think about, a little girl,
soaking in the sunshine,
with daisies in her hair.
I remember,  the constellations, sparkling
in her eyes, and, how she use to smile
at the boys during recess.  
How she would,  day dream, about a big wedding, with dancing, and, a grand piano, playing a song, taken, from, one of the poems,
she wrote,  in her diary.  
When,  she use to laugh,  at their jokes,
before, she went to the woods, with Billy.  
Before, the darknes, swallowed,  her dreams.
When, he planted the seeds, in Lucifer's garden. The stars died, in her eyes.
She bled,  into the soil, her tears, watered the grass.  He, heard, her curse the scriptures.  
From a slumber, he licked her wounds,
as he, whispered,  Azazael's name.  
The pitch black night, turned to day.  
She thought about, sparrows, drinking nectar,
under a clear blue sky, with the sunlight,  warming her face,  again.  
The forest, was cold, and lonely.  She wanted to hear the birds sing.  
She changed, with the seasons, when the crow, crowed,  inviting her to autumn.
Somehow,  she was fluent,  in his language.  
The conversation,  carried on,  with the falling, of departed, leaves, escaping, their confinement, from, the trees. She confided in the crow,  telling him, all about,  how,
She hated,  the boys, and, the way the trees,
were judging her.  She could feel it,  rooted into the ground,  where she sat,  feeling it, tipping her scales.  The imbalance, had offended her.  The wind,  blew through her hair,  provoking her rage.  The dark Libra,  had awaken,  Her ideologies of love, carried away, with the shadow, of her eclipsed heart.
She hated the Sun, and, the lies, its rays, had  spoke to her,  she had forsaken, all hope, and abandoned faith, of anything good, left in a world,  ruled by man.  Humanity, and decency, were words, that no longer,  resonated with her.  Kindness, no longer served her. She expected nothing,  but pain. Her truth, and faithful, companion.  The one thing, proven to be constant, in her reality. The only thing, certain,  was death would come,  eventually.
She hated, being the girl, that smiled at boys.
She watched the sky,  shift to grey,
followed the crow out of the forrest, when
it was time, to fly out of that place.  She dreamt of New Orleans, and, would make her way, eventually.  A city,  dark, like her.  With, witch craft, beating in her, tired heart.  
She picked up a razor, and cut the summer, away, frozen,  with her winter.  Moments passed, never passing at all. She found sanctuary, in the cemetery. Aeons from, a home,  she never lived in. She found a life, among the dead,  writing hymns, for the, winged, midnight feathered, creatures, that would come to comfort her.  Gifts from Azazael,  companions, to inspire, her blood, soaked offerings, dedications to the damned.
Her secret, now, a stain, on my memory.  
After living a life, filled with regret.
Passion, dwindling, with the sand, in my hour glass.  Time, bats her eye lashes,  at me.
I still drink Bourbon, on Saturday nights.
While I ponder, and wonder,
if he still reads my letters,
or if the crows, ever stopped singing?