The Raven

Death of Summer´s sweet rose
deadened in silent leaves
laying tethered and tormented
as the wind holds a soul

Pitch feathers, all a blade
straddling the worlds
of the living and the dead
resplendent in the black rag
gleam of barren night,
tactless and threateningly grim
shaggy scavenger with a dagger
and the most cultured, furtive eye
through the hushed mists of time.

Secreting away the sun into shade
conjurer of the moon,
the rawboned talons are upon the branch,
wretched in solitude,
the fog bleeds in tears
upon the dimming abbey lamps.

A hunger´s croak and bark
black angel, windtorn and tattered,
winged scarecrow,
in the silver quick mist
upon the sleeping snow.

The shivering owl´s hollow lament
upon the dark knoll
casting sins as stones,
piercing the chilled heart
entombed by black wings,
and the night´s scornful
black eyes aglow.