Sunlight, cast away your treasure;
dusk, embrace your darker friend;
steal me from familiar paths;
turn this day upon its end.
Hear the wind, a wailing widow;
colour me a shade of night;
neither erudite nor gifted
now my mind has taken flight;
for I’m nothing in these shadows;
with no world upon my back;
so unlike what soars above me
in the blindness of the black.
Upon a tarred and feathered raven
anthracite plays hide and seek;
plumage gilded by the moonlight;
mayhem carried in her beak.
She is poetry incarnate;
couplets rhyme beneath her wing;
shrieking caws become a sonnet;
requiems are hers to sing.
Tearing flesh from tender prey;
wounds reflected in her eyes;
harvesting the spoils of winter;
few would dare to steal her prize.
Bringing death to hapless quarry;
in a landscape lulled to sleep;
painting scenes of liquid crimson;
razored talons piercing deep.
She’s complete and utter raven;
she exists perchance to maim;
caring not for dark description;
for in truth she has no name.