Modern Romanticism

As it perches itself

Upon a bough made from ebony,

We fall away to the moon,

And learn to face the gloom

In the deepest sentiment of what is soon

To be seen,

The bird of prey.

The raven with its cloak of darkness,

Feathers of blackness,

Listless in its caw,

And drenched in grey upon its maw.

I am still too much for you,

As just a man with more to say,

Than to do,

For you,

Upon this day

When you feel the same way

We always did.

A face of death,

One skull and one breath,

And a stench from it

That would kill us away.

What life,

And what strife,

We will commit

To the blight,

That grips us

In the twilight.