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Poem

The sun spoke not a word to me,
its voice enshrouded by arrays
of ever thick'ning cumuli,
though silent too their whites and grays.

Peculiar not was such a sky,
save what I saw within its flow:
a solitary Nevermore--
the very same that tortured Poe.

It smeared the cloudy firmament;
foreboding was its lofty flight.
How very strange it was indeed
to see such pinions pierce the white.

What other reason could there be
for such a wicked thing to stray
but serve as devil's advocate,
for mortals did it see as prey.

And as I stood with eyes affixed
on morbid Nevermore's visage,
its conic maw let loose a caw;
twas not therefore a winged mirage.

Perhaps it wished to plague my soul,
the faculty of living flesh,
for that I knew it watched with zeal;
till madness rang, it wouldn't rest.

"Begone," I cried from humble earth,
"you shall not roost within my mind!
Return to hell from whence you came;
too strong am I for you to bind!"

Discern I did its ill intent,
and so elude I did its curse,
but still it looms on kindred days,
and for you I do fear the worst.

Much like the portrait-bound Sir Gray,
withhold your sight from whitened air
in which the candle has no tongue,
for such a wretched roof is where

misfortune's black familiar flies:
a crooked singing Satan's-eye!

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