written by: Beth Tremaglio
The poet, christened by the Raven at birth. A shadow entangled throughout his youth.
The soul drenched in poets ink, births utterances flowing from a soul marred, writing words of taint and rhythms of chaos.
The poets eye ever upon the shadow as the Raven draws nigh. Hands wither, words deeply engraved upon his forehead.
The sole of the poets foot upon the dust from which he was formed, to which he will return.
The Raven glances the poets eye, his words and breath to be no more.
The Raven perched, waits, to christen the birth of another.
Randomness of thoughts
Writing words, letting them live through me