Ravenholm

Down the narrow winding lost lonely streets,

down the alleys with blood of gruesome deeds.

The corpses hanging from cables above,

shotguns that once only picked off small doves.

The doves were long gone, and the ravens came,

the knives of suicide were left to blame.

Dust and ash sprinkled slowly down steep stairs,

but what were small earthly bodies to care.

The church lay in ruin and in decay, 

the few brave in there, died with their prayer.

Savoring mutilation on the Cross, 

in their head they hoped nothing was too lost.

Yet, their bodies succumbed to mortality, 

the devil ate their souls wholeheartedly.

In the apartment, families torn up,

nothing left except their corpses corrupt.

The remains of blood and dust sang to me,

they showed me nostalgia's sole decree.

It showed me humane mortality, see!

This was my dying, last, unending plea,

as the black ghost snuffed the life out of me.

In a darkened limbo i heard the psalm,

"We don't go to Ravenholm."