Upon a pall of shattered bone where moonlight fears to tread alone. There croaks a thing, not quite a bird. Its beak with mortal fragments slurred. No “Nevermore” its tongue doth speak, but teeth clack thick with morbid cheek. A chatt’ring dirge for flesh long cold. A feast more fit for graves than gold. Its wings, ah! the shadows stretched too thin, through which the worms still twist and grin. And in its breast, the heartbeat knells like rotting rain. Leaving not one morsel for the ghoul faced owl. For Lenore’s lips, now blue and sweet, would make for thee a daintier meat…








