Funereal Owlblood


The night grows pale

as with faint wing stroke

the cradle of decay

emerges from the ruins of reason

the roaring silence

sinks under the new trial

which escapes with speechless ardor

into decline

i tasted the morning dew

on a withered leaf

and forgot the acrimonious unrest

which awoke during the moon-shine

coz' only me is the frame and the blood

and i open your door into autumn