Watching crows dive for garbage
cackling like witches flying overhead
A cigarette dangles from his slack jaw
Who was he to judge their higher standards
for what they put into their mouths?
Rob a cradle or tame a cuckoldress?
He’d thought why sleep with a cherub
when he could make love to an angel?
With wings covered in the soot of burned lovers
her harpy talons carved his sins into his back
before throwing him upon a bed of spikes.
Even he couldn’t have written a better bitter end
He, the novelist who knew no happy endings
Now his pens are dried
His mind desert scorched
His thoughts of her a trash heap
Even the crows refused to eat
A/N: I’ve been reminiscing by revisiting the Goth music I used to listen to as a teen in addition to some newer black metal. The title hails from Cradle of Filth’s “Scorched Earth Erotica”. The carved sins drawn from Franz Kafka’s “In the Penal Colony”.