The Measure of Crime (edited)

Ordinary questions seem trivial and boring.
My mind is a fish net tonight; dreams are blue as water.
Every morning a crow croaks horror.
And they are bringing us in for the slaughter.

There are voices on the hill that must be met,
Along the old twisted cunning streams.
Sometimes a light glows among the trees,
And I hear you whisper from your dreams.

Of madness and in hope.
The flickering dance of shadows.
The tunes of forgotten lore.
The gardener comes to sow your woes.

When I awake, I think of Edgar Allan Poe.
I see him walking around the grave.
His misery, your beauty and a question on life.
And I lose you in an ocean wave.