This evening, I am alone, and yet I am not; Within this barren mansion, no raven to spot. For the price of solace is solitude, But this payment can never be made.
“Nevermore!” I mumble in quick succession, In hopes to ease my growing exasperation; Yet these words have no such power, They serve only to torment me, stronger by the hour.
I cut my wrists to forget this pain, To no avail, only the sheets I stain; So I gathered them, and burned it all, The curtains, the pictures, all will fall; For the flames consume all, save for the feelings, They crawl.
Homeless, cold, famished but not quite dead yet, Picked up a torch From the conflagration I’ve set. Headed north, I depart with pen, paper And a few pieces of silver.
For I’ve bartered my sanity for a brief respite, As I walk in these bloodied sandals, Your profile still in sight.