High on the steeple the black raven stands
Watching below with beady bright eyes.
Seeing the pain in her heart, in her hands,
Hearing her loneliness echo in sighs.
The night winds blow over, scattering mist,
While moonlight shine softly, yet bright on her bed.
She sits and he watches her pale features twist
In despair unexpressed, in pain never said.
She moves in the shaft of the moonbeam so bright,
And a glinting of silver he spies in her grasp.
Her tears are fast-falling, like diamonds of light,
Silent as the steel of the knife that she clasps.
Too late does he realize her darkened intent.
Too late does his warning cry ring to the skies.
Fear, Longing, Despair to her willpower lent.
Her soft hands are limp, as bleeding she lies.
He soars to her window and raps to get in.
He beats with his wings on the time-darkened shutters.
But no answer, no movement, no sound from within.
No sign that the once faithful heartbeat yet flutters.
Still is the night, though bright shines the moon
On the Raven, the Church and the girl no more weeping.
Her life, once the light of the sun at high noon
Now pale, and at peace, and for ever is sleeping.
© Aisha 2009
~ ~ ~
My Dear Readers,
Be not alarmed when you read this, that it in any way reflects my state of being.
I have never been suicidal. I wrote this one night when the moon was shining bright on the housetops and the church across the street, and Edgar Allan Poe's raven, and the Eagles from The Hobbit, and the walk I had taken in the forest, where the crows were flying in masses, were all sort of playing in my head, and the moonlight was really bewitching.
So pray, examine it for literary reasons, and tell me what you think! :)
Thanks for reading!