Out Stands the man,



there in the corn,



there his heart keens,



of reasons to morn.



October skies,



offer no solace,



their cerulean beauty,



only prods a grimace.



So he frowns on,



to see the sky on the wings,



the wings of a raven,



a bird dark and sleek.



And just for an instant,



he overcomes his forlorn,



and wonders how he wonders,



if he could search the firmament in such a noble form.



But how could he,



a clumsy man as he,



simulate the black bird he sees fly free?



His mind forms,



and twists and turns,



into an idea,



for which he yearns.



What if his body is of bondage,



to the limbs his soul is a slave,



what if the man in the corn,



dared to take them away?



So the man takes,



from his deep pocket,



a dagger acute,



as golden as a locket.



A locket perhaps,



that would catch the eye,



the eye of a raven,



that watches him cry.



Cry out to the bird,



does the sad man ,



who let the knife fall,



upon his own head.



Out the man bleeds,



there in the corn,



from the beak of a raven,



sighs a caw of bitter scorn.