October Diaries: Crows

The waxing days are slipping;

dragging lives in muddied fists.

You're either dead or dying.

Do you feel October's kiss?

A murders' caws are calling

for your senses to listen.

The fog in dusks' descent

chokes the chill in its brink,

encompassing in its reach

a brooding reminiscence.

A murders' wings are beating

for your spirit's seeking.

Midnight revelations seep

through breathing's steaming heat.

Leeching synchronicity,

black dirges in a flapping heap.

A murders' claws are scratching,

caws calling, wings beating.

You're either dead or dying.

The October moon is rising.