The Raven swoops,
To the murky water
Where the dead sleep
But do not dream.

He grabs a soul
Then flaps his wings
To balance himself
On a branch of Death

The Raven looks quizzically
At the moaning soul.
To wonder who hated it
Enough to send it here below.

Death had not consumed much
There were holes where the roots
Had touched, the tender spirit
Was in respect, still whole.

As the Raven pecked
At the spirit’s flesh
The sky darkened from gray
To the color of mourning black.

Another soul floated down
And sunk into the waters
The Raven felt Death’s roots reach,
For something fresh to eat.

The Tree of Death consumed
Anything that was remotely,
Resembling that of life.
Whether a damned soul; or light.

The Raven finished his meal
And let the eyeless corpse drop
So he could look around
The droll, lifeless realm.

The waters where the souls wept
The Tree that ate the dead.
Other than that, nothing else
Could be seen, only him- The Raven.