On the streets and hungry
for spiritual solace
which I could not define

you knew me
mother of words
like mine

other autumnal spirit
other raven
among the beautiful birds

watching the world decline
held to hope
by a crazy thread

we, both of us, knew Hell
or, for that matter, paradise
as well

like thieves on a cross
who would likely perish
for the only god they could kill

or even like the hope of some perfect newborn
come, in the icy cold, to a nation
of tears become snow
...among the dead.