the crow atop a dying tree

Down upon my soul, he peers,
this silent judgment cloaked in black solemnity,
perched high amongst the barren reach
of a dying oak,
whose lifetime is in its final fade,
no more spring times, no more autumn gold,
only the wait of ever greying wood,
falling limb by limb,
one by one, until no more,
twigs upon an earthen floor.

Why does he caw, this cawing crow?
Is he warning me?
Is he is mocking me,?
He keeps me in  his glaring golden eye
a fateful watch, a dreadful watch,
upon the passing of my mortality,
this raven, this deathly raven,
this finality, so slow, so slow in its arriving.

His ghastly vigil, his gallows stare,
he does not blink, he does not turn,
as if he waits for a coming rite,
a dark and silent, deeper night,
a dusk I cannot see,
I can only fear,
a ferocity,
whose growling prowl,
I sometimes hear,
when the other side comes far too near.

Down upon my heated soul,  he peers,
with his coal dust robes and  fiery eyes,
on this blazing, burning summer day,
upon my heated soul,
on this blazing, burning summer day.

The End

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