A Conversation Between Death and Crows

Beneath the blood-red moon's baleful light,

A figure cloaked in crimson treads the night,

His visage, bone and void, devoid of breath,

For he is the ancient herald, the specter-Death.

"Ah, seven crows, in midnight's winged attire,

What darkened truths do you conspire?"

The skull did grin, with teeth so bare,

As wind whispered through the hollow air.

The first crow cawed, its voice a rasp,

"Why dost thou walk in such a ghastly clasp?"

"To reap what’s sown, to ferry lost souls,

For in my grasp, the universe rolls."

The second crow laughed, a cruel, sharp sound,

"Do they fear you still, those buried in the ground?"

A chuckle dry, the skeleton spoke,

"Fear is a veil, a heavy cloak.

Yet when it lifts, they see me clear,

Not a monster, but release, dear."

The third crow tilted its feathered head,

"Is there nothing you dread, O bearer of the dead?"

Death paused, his sockets deep and black,

"I fear the stillness, the endless lack

Of dreams, of change, of sorrow's sting,

The void where not even shadows cling."

The fourth crow croaked, with mocking glee,

"Then why not rest, let mortals be?"

Death's jaw creaked in a hollow sigh,

"Without my stride, would stars still die?

Would time itself unmake its thread,

Or would all be but dust, unsaid?"

The fifth crow flapped its wings in thought,

"Is there a reason you were wrought?"

"Reason?" Death mused, his voice a shroud,

"Perhaps a jest by a god too proud.

Or maybe, crows, I’m simply fate,

A mirror reflecting their own state."

The sixth crow, in whispers low,

"Do you dream, as the living do?"

A moment's pause, then the skeleton's rasp,

"My dreams are naught but the world’s last gasp.

I dream of silence, where none abide,

Where all is still, where all must hide."

The seventh crow, with eyes like night,

Asked the final question, a query tight:

"Will you, in turn, face your demise,

When even the stars lose their guise?"

Death smiled, a grin so wide,

"I am the end, where all things bide.

But when I fall, who shall take my place?

Perhaps a crow with a skeletal face?"

The crows all cawed, a chorus of doom,

As Death marched on under the crimson moon.

And so they journeyed, in eerie rhyme,

A dance of shadows, beyond all time.

For even in death, there is a jest,

A darkened truth, a final rest.

So read these words, ye who are wise,

For within the jest, a secret lies.

Death walks with crows under scarlet light,

And all must follow, into the night