This poem is dedicated to a poet friend of mine who was recently a stalking victim, but the problem is now resolved....

Here flies a murder of crows,
Here lies an unwanted rose.

Three crows squabble
in a twisted tree
blind
to human lunacy,
where man goes
out hunting his prey
and woman dreads
the fading day,
where sounds
exist to plague the mind
and confidence
is left behind;
so cast the rose
down on the floor
forget
who put it through the door.

Some people fear the dark,
some people are the dark.

Now she runs
from the lonely freak
and only the dark
can speak

as the crows squawk on
she locks up tight
the chub, the bolt
lock out the night
as daylight fades
everyone's out
"alone, alone!"
the black birds shout;
a sash window
a glass-paned door
a net curtain;
perfect before
but now
they might as well be mist
between haven
and anarchist
day after day
and endless nights
waiting for him
to blow the lights -

Some people fear the dark,
some people are the dark.