Lenore’s a raven of her own
that no one’s seen or heard.
She comes in false dawn’s early hours
but will not speak a word.
And yet Lenore inclines her ear
to hear within its mind
what so disturbs the bird to
seek her presence for its kind.
I wonder what it tells her
in the room of sunny light,
when all its ebon pinions seem
more suited to the night…
“Your cousin mourns ‘the lost Lenore’,
and cries the whole night long,
and asks for respite and nepenthe
In his mourning song.”
“My brother sits upon the bust
of Pallas o’er his door,
and there your cousin smiles at him,
it seems, forevermore.”
“Perhaps you should now go to him
and tell him that you’re whole,
not waiting on the hellfire
to scorch your very soul.”
“That you did not return his love
will ever break his heart,
and yet your honesty did have
no edifice of art.”
“Tonight, again, he’ll search for you
among his many books.
Go take to him the balm of your
intoxicating looks.”
“Don’t come to him
the black clad witch
and harridan you are.
And tell my brother we must leave,
for we must travel far.”
“And no, we shall not speak again,
and I will miss you sore,
but he and I must once again
plumb night’s Plutonian shore.
Our feathers paint the shadowed stars
of night’s Plutonian shore,
to never dwell in Pallas’ light again.
No, nevermore.”
BlackQuill 