Deference

From where does the raven’s voice emanate

If not from the night’s solemn umbra?

From where does the winter’s frigid grasp emerge

If not from death’s savage soul?

For if not born of the night

A wicked apparition the raven be,

Propelled through the fevered minds of men

On wings of smoke inky and black

Its horrid cry shattering

The illusion of self and sanity.

Borne forth on winds malicious

The moans of death’s cruelest mistress dance.

If not born of death

A brutish and irreverent companion winter be

Icy tendrils clawing, tearing, ripping

Assailing those that dare to walk in the light.

For if not of the night

From death’s pale bosom might the raven alight?

And if not born of death’s darkest desire

Might, instead, from night’s frigid ire

Winter’s ravages take flight?

For the winter and raven

Alike, fly on wings of malice

And neither death’s nor night’s depravity

Need be spoken on

By a mind

Born of madness