the leaves turn into crows and follow the sun as it sets,
passed a crumbling tower with a dying conqueror muttering regrets.
and the old man sees his empire – his battlements of stone,
under siege by weeds and mosses overthrown.

every time i think apparitions they appear –
brooding, evil things mapping me – trapping what i hear.
buffeting their wings, preying on my every fear.

an epitaph of crumbling words, mockeries of what i meant to say;
flocks and flocks of mocking birds sending me an endless gray…