In one evening in the darklight, light
of midnight by the light of the lore.
Stood a figure quite a figure
of a person as of yore.
Shadowed by the shadows
of the crosses row by row on row.
As if to see the fog of tales
gone by and quoted nevermore.
Beams of moonlight, howling
ravens and silent owls and more.
Saying something’s and the nothings
all the while nothing more.
Figures stalking, talking, talking
in a fathom by deeper fathoms more.
Boiling cauldrons seething
brewing by the eons gone for all.
As if to say no more, to say,
quoth the raven “nevermore”
And if the never is a never or the never
that is more or less than before.
And all that leaves the ravens lair,
to make a quote and more.
Of the hidden writings of the prose
by dead poets yet alive some more.
Who haunts the mind of those
bereft of life yet alive, more
By their love of living but
all askew and skewered, haunted.
So as to seek the words
of muses by the shadows.
All the while calling, calling
from the fog of lore.
And the holler, holler
of the echoes of the night, and more.
Drifting in and out of rows within
the rows of mausoleums’ tall.
Searching, searching raven lairs,
nothing there save ghosts be gone.
Yet hovering ravens stay the covers
and curse the fog all the more.
By the figure, tall and all,
quoting, quoting more and more, “:nevermore”
Answering still the raven more,
“ quoth the raven, nevermore”