It's Still Life

A Steed’s Lament in Sleepy Hollow

They call me omen, call me curse,
a shadow-mare to haul the headless hearse.
He grips my flanks with knees of bone,
and rides me through the mourner’s moan.

I toss my mane — he cannot see.
I choose the path — what use is he?
I’ve borne the weight of sin and dread,
but never once a kind word said.

So let the living shriek and flee,
it’s just a job — he’s dead, you see.
No glory here, no thanks, no reign,
just endless night — in driving rain.