There is a Raven Perched upon my window sill, Its talons tearing into the paint. The tick-tock Of a grandfather clock Resounds throughout the walls, Matching the scritching-scratching Of the ravens claws. I sit in the corner, As I have for night after night, Not sleeping, Never sleeping, Simply sitting and waiting. The Raven begins To tap-tap-tap At the window pane.
And I sit
And wait.
How long now has it been? Since my Sun, So beautiful at its Dawn, Had left its Noon-time heights For an untimely Setting? Sadly grieveous as it had been, My Sunset had been darkly beautiful, Asplash with deep reds and purple, Crowned in gold.
Oh that I had been Pyramus and she Thisbe. Star-crossed and Tragic, A love made eternal by mutual deaths. Alas, it was not to be, For I am no Pyramus and she no Thisbe. She went ahead of me And not by choice of her own, By my blade yet not her hand. And after her I would chase, Pleaing forgiveness on bended knee In that next dream.
Yet I am afraid, Of the knife, Her scorn, Her embrace.
And so I sit
And wait.
The Raven is at my window, Talons scratching divots in the sill. The resounding of the clock Still surrounds me,