Poetry and whatnot

While a black of crows – hide in a storm of beds.
A book that brings the curse of death
to all who look upon it
while life is at rest.
Composed from the shadows!
The blackness is numb;
your days are numbered as you chant this song.
The crows await a filthy feast as you work out the riddle of this verse to complete.
A book of darkness;
a book of truths;
a moment where life could or maybe should.
The key is silver;
the lock is black;
let life go!
So death can give back