Darkling

The old institution
stands in the shadows
of centenary oaks,
blindly blinks
when a stark beam
slips through.

A murder of crows,
dark as silhouettes,
watch and wait
upon the many ledges.
They bitterly caw
in the dense swelter,
calling out a fate
that carries
on a musky breeze
that stirs the trees,
a count of those
that never leave.

The residents here,
bones brittle as sparrows,
spines curved into questions,
the world a puzzle
beyond their powers.
Within these walls,
they grow smaller,
smaller,
disappear.