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Emilia Hawthorne Poem
The midnight raven does not chatter.
He screeches and waits
upon the gallows for a hanged man’s eye
-a tasty morsel for a daemon.
For a raven is a fine gentleman
who feasts only on the foulest carrion.
This feathered fiend who lurks
pays no heed to the Holy.
He would sit upon the heaven’s gates
if only to purloin a child’s soul.
“Hark!” he cries, “I bring ill tidings,
I am the emissary for the ashen horse!”
Oft on a dreary autumn morn
the harbinger tap-tap-taps on a window
and all inside do quake in terror
for Death draws near to collect due payment.
In the end it is the raven
who laughs mockingly upon the bodies.
Copyright © Emilia Hawthorne | Year Posted 2014
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Emilia Hawthorne Poem
How can I prove
to you, you hoe,
I care more
for Hell below?
Leave me, go!
I wish you hell.
Please, oh please
fall down a well!
You sicken me
with your false smiles.
The hearts of lovers
in battered piles.
Such pettiness
what crooked lies
And yet to you
men swam like flies.
How can I prove
to you, you *****,
I really want you
in a ditch.
Copyright © Emilia Hawthorne | Year Posted 2014
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Emilia Hawthorne Poem
Here is my inspiration.
There is the toilet.
Plop.
Flush.
Gurgle.
Copyright © Emilia Hawthorne | Year Posted 2014
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Emilia Hawthorne Poem
Where has my inspiration gone?
My mistress muse
the tempting siren.
Have you fled from me,
You, who once so easily
danced across my mind?
Or have you been taken
by the grasping hand of age?
Copyright © Emilia Hawthorne | Year Posted 2014
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