From the window the sky empties to nothing   and the murder of crows, with their ravished beaks,   groan for the hollowed inhabitants of the passing day.      Insatiable sorrow, with its draughty halls, sent a gleaming sword to consume the passing madness only to be   plunged into a diminishing perspective.      Inside I trawl the motionless ravines, a twisting hatred that bubbles from under the steaming, scarlet brook   while the incessant rain washes away the gnawing of your imprisoned eyes.      Anger, with it's steaming arrows, cuts through the dank air   dissecting the worn out guilt of October's echoes that drip sadly   from the dead branches.      but before they cold leave   they spent a cold summers eve   tending the knotted despair   of a ravaged corpse.