State thy coming and away with thee,
for this be not mine hour of going.
Tred to that place of bitter dust roads
and bloody rivers,
cross now the muck of damnation,
you ridiculous unbirthed death.

You who smile in coexistence
with the orange headed grave keeper,
you who walks,
clothed in pale cloaked death,
but that you are.

You are not the Ebony Crow,
for you sprinkle lightly
poisoned rose pedals of black silk,
upon children of divine promises.

Tempt not the Daughter of Death,
for if you look upon the Black Crow
with thought to influence,
you shall be punished.

Loathed enemy, not be now friend,
for you my soul doth reveal,
though wicked cylinders of cold blood
run from were you dwell.

You tell tales of unforgiving deaths
that lie and so tempt unknowing youths.
And you say,
concocted anger knows no pain,
but you smirk in bitter darknesses,
for you know that this be not true.

This death that you are,
spreads over everything,
and creates deadly violet blackened moon struck skies, which bring crippled bare passion
to unwed youths.

Chaos inflicting vail of streaming death,
I forgive thee not
of this which you have brought.
You are the hate,
the pain,
the suffering and temptation.
Your anger brings you happiness,
and the only pain you feel,
is that to be rejected by those who you wish to overtake.