The Raven
In the shadowed grove, where moonlight wanes,
A raven perches, feathers inked with midnight stains.
Its eyes, twin orbs of obsidian, hold secrets untold,
As it croaks its mournful tale, a story of old.
The raven, messenger of forgotten lore,
Swoops down from the ebon sky, wings ashore.
Its beak, a dagger honed on sorrow's edge,
Pecks at the remnants of a long-lost pledge.
"Nevermore," it whispers, a haunting refrain,
Echoing through the twisted branches, the rain.
Each feather a memory, etched in pain,
The raven weaves a tapestry of loss and disdain.
It feasts on carrion, feigned indifference its guise,
Yet within its breast, a tempest of longing lies.
For the raven knows the weight of ancient sins,
The burden of forgotten dreams, where darkness begins.
Its caw reverberates through the desolate night,
A dirge for broken hearts, a requiem for flight.
And as the moon retreats, leaving shadows to creep,
The raven takes flight, into the abyss, deep.
So beware the raven's call, its mournful plea,
For it carries the weight of eternity.
In its ebony wings, the echoes of despair,
A creature of twilight, forever bound to the air.
Copyright ©
Dave Harding
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