A Corvid Coven

Ravens have been the thoughts
flitting through my brain
as I walk the gravestone lots
of this misty moonlit lane.
Poe walks to one side of me
and Lovecraft to the other,
and, above us, Hecate,
our midnight, moon-eyed mother.
Twain mutters to himself
a joke, the sardonic satirist,
and Le Fanu summons an elf
from the moor’s veil of mist;
Goya sits in a chair
and paints the mad dance
of us lunatics who dare
the Devil at chance,
and a bright bonfire burns
near the deep, dark woods
around which there turns
a trio wearing hoods:
Jackson, Carter, Bowen,
each and all mesmerizing
as they glow when
the vesper’s rising.
Wearing stygian cloaks
and Protean masks,
these cavorting folks
drink from Lethean flasks,
gathered as one together
in a Sylvan court,
birds of an inky feather
seeking magic and sport.
Time will always outlast us,
even when seeking salvation
on the summit of Parnassus
and the imagination,
yet what a nice stroll
is to be had among them all—
to be a kindred soul
and answer the Raven’s call.

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