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.