The Raven’s Lament

In the hollow of the night, where shadows creep,
A raven perches on a willow, weeping black tears,
Its feathers whisper secrets to the frost-kissed ground,
Of a world where moonlight fears to tread.

The clock tower tolls, a dirge for the forgotten,
Each chime a blade that carves the silence,
Beneath its gaze, a graveyard stirs—
Tombstones lean like lovers, cold and cracked.

I walk the fog, my boots on cobblestones,
A symphony of echoes, hollow and thin,
The air tastes of iron, of rust, of sin,
And the raven’s cry becomes my own.

Oh, to be the mist that clings to bone,
To drift unseen through this eternal gloom,
But the raven knows—its eyes like onyx flame—
There is no escape from the shadows we claim.