The Madness of the Raven

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven…

~The Raven; Edgar Allan Poe

~*~

Perched on a stone, a watchful raven

Searching warily for his personal haven

Where the intruding sun need not shine

In a valley of dry bones, dust, and grime

.

Feathers shaded of deepest midnight

Ruffled wings of a most tactical flight

Sharp talons and beak speckled rust red

Beady eyes devoid of soul, almost dead

.

A well-known thief and a nasty trickster

They all despised his dictated nature

Sleight built inside his stone-cold heart

Clockwork instincts he cannot stop

.

But the raven had a mind of great intellect

A fondness for knowledge, a smart aleck

Yet stirred, obscured by a darker retrospect

Transmuted horror by a nefarious speck

.

He turned to gloom and beguilement

Eroded to dust by his own endowment

Hated like vultures, made stupid like crows

His lost common sense shutting to a close

.

Here thus perches the lonely ebony raven

With a vision of cleverness and high maven

But no one ever listens to his caws of witiness

Because all they can see was just another form of madness.

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