Dead Man’s March

Above me,

A murder of crows.

A procession of black

Stands broken and slouched.

It rains.

Hidden behind the clouds,

The sun does not delight

This unkindness of ravens.

The old man

Leading this parade

Carries me.

His bones show

Through his thin skin.

They lay me

In the muddy dirt.

I hear tired words uttered,

Sorrowful whispers muttered.

The line of despair

Slowly dissipates.

I am forgotten.