By Catt Kingsgrave

Pale snow falls like a secret, like a hope that lies in shadow
And the gravestones hold no memory of the pain that lingers here.
It was pain that led you to me, kissing dry the cheeks of angels
In the shadow of the hallows, and the veil's unmending tear.

Painted face in shades of joy that scream of irony and hatred,
Ill omened bird advising with a murmur in your ear,
But you always turn to look, don't you? To bruise your eyes with memory
Then you pull the mask down tighter and pretend you do not hear.

Dance with blades and dance with razors; write a poem in each chamber
Till the hammer falls, the curtain calls, and Rorschach paints the room.
But that death of sleep still seeks you, and its dreams will leave you screaming.
Then I ask when you will join me, and through blood, you whisper 'Soon.'

I have watched you from the shadows as you wrought your pain upon them
Each one fell to fuel your justice never doubt that I was there.
I took up the gifts you offered; I am patient when I must be.
Not the promise sings of sunrise, you have called, and I am here.

Let me bathe your wounds with silence from a river soft and deepening,
Caressing with the snowfall where the laughter's cut you deep.
Let there be no more between us: no more demons, weary angel.
Rest your head upon my shoulder. Let me sing you into sleep.
No more pain and no more promises; just you, and me, and sleep.


This is a fan-piece, inspired from two sources; J O'Barr's The Crow, and Neil Gaiman's Death. I drew a picture which illustrates Eric's final surrender to Death, and Death's gentle welcome. Somewhere there exists a remaining copy of it, but I myself cannot lay hands to it. Probably little loss there -- as I recall, their heads were both rather too big anyway. So let the poem stand on its own, shall we? There's a tune for this one as well, but it really doesn't much suit -- it wants more electrified instruments than I have available to me, I'm afraid.