The crows they passed nor wisdom lent,
Save edicts of their own intent—
Decrees of self, in echoes thrown,
Till every voice was praise alone.
Oh! Ghastly flock! Oh! Vain parade!
Your kingdom’s built on rot and shade.
For when the dawn shall rend the air,
You’ll find no audience, but despair.
“Behold!” cried one, his beak held high,
“My shadow dwarfs the sun’s own eye!”
“Pfaugh!” scoffed next, with crest upturned,
“My caw has left the moon adjourned!”
And thus they perched, each bird a king—
Till Time crept in on silent wing,
And lo! The wind, with jest so grim,
Did steal their crowns, and none claimed them.








Nicely done I love this.
Poe is the Master of dark…I think.