Reposed and reclined was I then,
To be contented per say of my den,
Yet, thoughts be it of mine,
Strayed far through space and time.
Reaches out at a speaking darkness,
Seemingly insignificant, yet of deep greatness,
And I grabbed it with glee,
Something a friend brought to Me.
A memory of my memory,
A book of poetry,
Thought to be in my position and now lost,
Came flooding back through cadavers and frost.
Retreated did I, from that very état,
And pondered through lectures as would Descartes,
Alas, the sun rises and sets much more easily,
Thus had I to recollect that which it was in tranquility .
Even a madman with all his swagger he could muster,
Thrust would (he) upon the dagger and reclaim back his wear, duster,
And yet - yet I could not find such but to remember Leonore,
A tale calmly and barely I adore.
And Lo! There! I’ve found it!
The part of me or Me that gazed it,
The dredging through barren leaves of my ‘haven’,
Just to say you were right of The Raven.