Scratching beneath the muse of my feelings,
Screeches on window glass, colors, globes of pigment blended,
Outside world, lighted through stained translucence seems,
To be a design, no more idly etched, the master,
Than here is drawn free hand, what is there envisioned true.
Just as everything I could and indeed ever do,
is imperfect, through cracks in the glass falling,
Shards to be lit or remain dim,
and cling to rotten, curled ironwork like leaves at fall.
This house was nothing ever more than a rocky shamble,
rickety trick, conceived & cut, from lumber, raised too quick,
Now with moldy floor boards, bowing and bending, under my weight,
and out by the gate, even from there the sound of half hung shutters,
tatters in the wind blown.
Haunted not by ghosts, but simple missus discord.
A beauty played out too soon deaths song.
A whistling draft passes a note from one room to another in cryptic code,
beyond the bedtime age, but still a story spell put under,
as dusk was pulled haltingly asunder,
Into twinkling starry lights and the black of gathering crows.
A tale that only darkness knows, forever spun at night,
And posed as if something more than just a play of light.
Out i walked and shut the door, and briefly Over my shoulder,
I heard an echo, faint and crisp in a summer evening's air,
a bone chilling but ever clear, Nevermore.

you are such a talent...