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Still, so still in the city tonight,
twelve o’clock, tick-tock,
when all that is good slinks
away like a beaten dog and the
black black shadows are alive
with the dead, twisted poetry
in broken English, flesh and
blood and staring faces…

So grey and despairing, strong
as steel but collapsed inside,
The Crow laughs under a
street light, a voodoo smile of
one who lived and died and
yet still lives…

He makes his way home where
he can be shapeless in the dark
and paint his face in the colours
of joy…

Tonight, hell sends an angel
bearing gifts…
Enter