Everybody knows
about the Crow.
But needs the night,
darkness to take flight.
Obscures the clouds,
dresses the moon in shrouds.
The phantom moon is Crow's magic rune.
All to glorify his awful madness.
He calls it art, it's steeped in sadness.
Come on Raven, I won't snatch
those dreams away.
I can hear their footsteps not
so far away.
and they're calling you from
some sleepy dream.
They fall like black feathers
as you preen.
I think I know why
the Crow flies.
He's the paramour of the night,
impailed upon its greatest height.
If his great wide wings should break,
snapped and tossled, his soul's at stake.
Torn from his lover,
plummetting towards the ground...
to not have another
night of passion and fury to surround...
And soothe him with its windy sighs,
to not fly as the Crow flies.
Because everybody knows
about the Crow.
And how he flies
he needs no eyes...
but woos the night,
where he takes flight
to shadow his dreams...
calling to them in his Raven's screams.