A wailing wind in this monstrous night,
A flight of a flock of things so dressed in spite -
Little do they know that I am the monster of the night,
Watching their flock as they peacock in their flight and synchronize their struts -
I plot and scheme in that instant between
And the crows won't know what comes in the dingy dark.
The raven rules the night they say, but there is one the raven takes its flight,
Turns its back, burrows itself in knotted vines from:
That is me, his master.
You have seen me, darling Abigail, yes you have and you know the things I must say.
Abigail, you sought me out in the pomp of youth in the deadest night where the moon
Was too afraid to poke a toe from behind her patch of black,
You said my legend lacked, and yet, you never knew, Abigail,
You never knew.
That I am the night itself, the very same you tried to court
With nubile thigh and milky eye, some sighs you'd never shared with another, Abigail,
And you never will.
Thank you, Abigail, for courting me in that night when the usual flock
Had gone too afraid of what was come.
I should've gone hungry were it not for Abigail.
Abigail.