The Raven

"Scary raven, do not hover In the sky above my head". Russian folk song The raven is raving. I have no use of prophets like you. Non-being lingers. My life, so infertile, so sandy, so loose, continues to slip through my fingers. The crook, you foretold me an ultimate null: no eagernesses, no eagers, though death, so frustrating, so banal, so dull continues to slip through my fingers. "The time", said the raven. "Behold how it will be over according to figures", though time, so phantasmal, so false, so unreal continues to slip through my fingers.