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.
