• the crows rest
    on a tree of black
    hot ash
    falls from the sky
    like burning rain

    a snake climbs
    from the pits of Hell
    its venom
    poisoning the land

    you and I
    wake from our slumber
    and are drawn to the dark
    afraid to face the light

    in our path
    a white rabbit
    is dying
    we bury it
    under the black tree

    a crow
    flies away
    the leaves rustling
    beckoning it to return
    but it does not come

    the snake whispers
    of a paradise
    but you turn away
    saying it's a lie
    I follow,
    uncertain of who is true