Behold, a crow caw tears cold air,
ripping breezes to shreds tattered,
will Time **** her black bones fair?
He tries, but Her cries mattered.
Matters to whom, one can ask.
The Lady by her dim window unclear,
Using a clammy night for mask,
the docile heart, her beating, biding fear.
Ebony wings turn quietly…
Upon an evening dreary and sad,
fairest, My Crow, shrieks piercingly
and the Lady’s *****: glad.
For crow’s wails lament morbidly-
Screaming to and with the far too lonely.
My first attempt at iambic pentameter and a Shakespearian style sonnet. Written about the crow that flies by my window.