And as that specter-bird his ditty tolls, The silver light of the wan moon unrolls—A phantom-slip, a penitent’s wan shroud. That like a ghost doth on the floorboards crowd.
It is a pallor, borrowed from the dead.
A stark and silent shape by horrors bred. That points a finger, bony, long, and pale. And tells a woeful, unforgotten tale.
Then comes a breath—a zephyr from the grave. That not with the scent of life, but death, doth lave. The fevered brow. A call, both chill and dumb. From which the startled, slumb’rous soul must come.
It is a summons from a world unseen. A space that lies in memories between. To quit the warmth of all familiar lands. And follow where that ghostly gestic stands.
To unfamiliar paths, obscured by mist. Where hope itself by pallid, death is kissed. To closed and long-forgotten stores of lore. Behind a black and adamantine door.
What awful knowledge in that darkness lies? What truth would strike the sane mind blind, unwise? The raven knows, the moon-drawn ghost doth plead—
