The dark crow man sits and stares

into the oblivion into cold into nothingness;

it's snowing in his mind.

He's created himself in his own image.

Lust held for him means naught,

a knock on the door

brings no smile to his cruel lips;

the welcome in a woman's eyes

holds nothing for him.

Alone on his haunches

the hair raises on the back of his neck.

His dead eyes pierce the night.

As his gaze falls down on the city

it fills him the method ascertained, conviction.

He knows what to do and

moves to commit the deed.