The inkwell was a stagnant pond,
Of the things a desperate man might find.
Then came the scratching, a rhythmic plea,
A guest who had crossed a phantom sea.
“Tell me,” I whispered, my voice a dry reed,
Does the ghost of a lost love still bleed?
A polished obsidian, a void, a stare,
But anchored the grief that hung in the air.
“You are a mirror,” I told the feathered ghost,
“Of all the mourners, I am the host.”
It shifted its weight, a rustle of silk,
The air tasted of copper and milk.
And the walls were leaking the scent of the tomb,
In a house that has run out of room.
A whisper of soot against my tired ear,
But the sound of a clock that only I could hear.
“Nevermore,” it didn’t say…the word was too loud,
It simply breathed, like a gathering cloud,
And mirrored the void of my own vacant face,
A guest who had finally found his place.
“Are you my pen?” I asked the black wing.
“The instrument through which the dead shall sing?”
The bird didn’t flutter, didn’t blink, didn’t fly,
It merely looked at me with a dead man’s eye.
And we sat in the silence, the poet and the crow,
Two shadows waiting for the candle to go.
Until the ink dried, and the room became gray,
And the bird and the man simply drifted away.
so very haunting dearest Adagio and so beautifully written ❤️
Thank you, Brenda.