The Raven

The Raven

It came to me when night grew old,

When silence pressed against the floor,

Its wings were shadows wrapped in thought,

Its cry a sound I’d heard before.

It perched upon the edge of time,

Its eyes like coals, both dead and wise,

They saw the truth I’d tried to hide,

They tore the calm from midnight skies.

It spoke no words, yet still I knew,

The meaning in its heavy stare,

It saw my grief, my hollow hope,

It saw a heart beyond repair.

Each beat of wing disturbed the dark,

Each breath I took became a sin,

The air grew thick, the candle shook,

As something cold crept deep within.

It followed me through haunted thoughts,

Through corridors of my own mind,

And every time it called my name,

It left an echo close behind.

I asked it once if death was near,

It blinked and watched the moon descend,

Then flew into the fog of night,

A silent ghost that would not end.

Now when I dream, it visits still,

It perches just beyond my sight,

And though I wake before it speaks,

Its presence lingers through the night.

For every soul that knows despair,

A raven waits upon the breeze,

To feed on sorrow’s quiet breath,

And whisper truth to dying trees.