Through shadowy veils of my mournful mind is the vastness of iridescent stars, their hopeful light does not comfort me. The very thought of not being in the treasure of your presence awakens the dulling grief of my heart's loneliness. The unkind ravens have alighted on my cold sill, perching in their misery of silence. Such avian moroseness to be as black as eve's unyielding darkness, the onyx of their eyes in a deathly watch, their dirge unsung. Falling, falling, falling from the heady spell of after-midnight's witchery. Death's sudden arrival, his rattling and frosty breath chills my very existence. My time of passing with his undying kiss is unknown. Could I soon awaken in my bedchamber with his icy bones at my side before he turns my melancholic bones to ash with his kiss? In these desolate hours I imagine church bells peal heavily, tolling, tolling for my funeral day, Oh, what bereavement has wrought! A deep gong of the grandfather clock, it's face reflecting the filled October moon of fate, fleeting misty clouds upon her golden glorious fairness. Was it your love, your desire, or my inspired longing for where Death has no dominion, no cause to separate? Your suffering, your eyes as if the shadows of an eclipse. Your mystery dust cannot conceal, infinity cannot fade into the depths of the cosmos, and I in my sallow sorrow will weep for you, always. ~ Edgar Allan Poe's birthday is January 19th.