Tortured hanging there, the Raven
perches above my mind, contemplating
how to inspire this poet, release his
inspirations, create a verse or two.
How does he draw it forth? He has
already served him so well, entering
his chamber at night, comforting his
soul as it wept, licking the wounds of
cuts bestowed upon him by his infliction
Yet this poet hangs there, suspended
in his world of confusion and hatred for
injustices cursed upon him. He battles
with depression, madness, creativity
and loss of it.
Oh the darkness, bleakness tightens
the chains around his wrists, cutting
deeply, opening up old wounds.
His body shackled and held tight by
his Muse, nothing comes forth, he
is dry, an empty vessel.
All his life he dripped of sadness, saw
the injustices, felt the sorrows of others,
wept with them too. He knew that a
cross was nearby, clutching it, he hung
it around a neck of emptiness.
Although he knew his life was to be cut
short, time was important to him, gifts
were reaching out to him, take them,
use all of it, leave not a word to linger
too long, before they vanish into thin air.
Grab what life offers you, for no telling
when the well would run dry. Ripping
the cross from his sacrament body,
he flings it against space and watches
it slips through beyond the ripped vale.
So pinned to this cold, cold wall, chained
to it in outer darkness, poet and Raven
listen intently, they know this poet well,
the Raven his subject for years, stood
by him under dim light, saw him penning
his work, knew that all was not well, yet
perched silently, always knowing that
words would come to the poet and his
quill would once more be blackened and
drip onto his parchment before him,
opening up one verse after another,
turning the page or tossing it to the
abyss under his desk.
Pages of worthless feelings that
amounted to meaningless spittle.
Vincent Moore 2016