the crows caw, morose and slow, 

like dread crawling 

down my back

       they hang in the grey sky, 

grey like an old man’s head, his

     weak bones atrophied. I look up

my feet crush the snow 

six feet below 

lies my friend, 

where exactly? I forget where they threw him there was a blizzard

gravestones don’t belong at the crossroads 

when I try to speak, the words are strangled. something in me kills  them before they are spoken. inside me, they are rotting, so I open my mouth and their bloated corpses fall out,  surrounding me in festering  piles that tower high above

with the crows.

those birds know the answer I myself can’t give

but their strange song is distorted by

bitter winds too harsh to fall on deaf 

ears 

I cannot hear anymore

 my senses faded by

too many winters 

too many 

at this place

I am so cold I am so numb

can only see the crows can only feel the dread..