The dark crow man sits and stares
into the oblivion into cold into nothingness; it's snowing in his mind.
He's created himself in his own
image. Lust held for him means naught, a knock on the door brings no smile to
his cruel lips;
the welcome in a woman's eyes holds
nothing for him.
Alone on his haunches the hair raises
on the back of his neck. His dead eyes pierce the night.
As his gaze falls down on the city it
fills him the method ascertained, conviction.
He knows what to do and moves to
commit the deed.
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