Read the pages of ancient lore,
Where a creature lives in days of yore.
With violet, black, and silent wings
In the dark, a wretched thing.
Over bloodstained fields of dead men's flesh,
Bringing forth the sting of death,
Silently soaring, with talons sharp
Quickly tearing the weak apart.
Who can stop it, strong and wise,
Seeing everything, with it's watchful eyes.
Never sastified, wanting more,
It's greed rotting it to the core.
Among the shadows it spends it's time
Plotting carefully within his mind
For the next time you come around,
You'll try to scream, but won't make a sound.
He'll take what you have, to the very last straw,
Quickly and quietly as you watch in awe.
In the depths of your soul he deeply stares
You should be thankful if your life he spares
He sees himself as full of power
Not knowing there will come an hour
At the time when no one else can hear
And the shadows he himself should fear.
For long ago, in days of yore,
Within the pages of ancient lore
The dark became his haven,
And he called himself The Raven
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