Most men crave red wine.

He craves red blood.

Why must the crow call checkmate

on those without a chance to move?

Why must the crow have the destiny 

of a double-sided omen?

He is but a matchbook stained by bourbon

and burnt with not flames but bruises.

Under skies reminiscent of graveyard games

he is ravenous,

ravenous for crops who have not yet been victim 

to what winter gifts the living.

On a scarecrow, he lands and

they play a game of chess.

The winner gets their soul

while the loser gets to watch their own dissipate

with a glass of spirit—red wine—to wash it down.

The crow is scared but cannot screech.

For his flame has been extinguished;

his match met, he faces defeat.