In realms of shadows, where despair holds sway,
A poet wanders, drenched in endless grey.
A spectre of sorrow, clad in ink-stained gloom,
In verses woven from the loom of doom.
O, why does sorrow like a tempest weep?
As if the stars in heaven, their vigil keep.
Does the moon, in mourning, veil her face?
And does the sun retreat, in deep disgrace?
Answers lie, entwined in midnight\'s shroud,
Where silence weaves a tapestry so proud.
Why do the ravens, with mournful song,
Speak of a tale that\'s hauntingly wrong?
The poet is lost in a labyrinth of woe,
Asks the shadows: \"Whence does my sorrow grow?\"
Does the heart, a vessel, bleed with pain?
Or do the echoes of lost love remain?
In the abyss of ink, where verses mourn,
The poet pleads, his soul forlorn.
Why do dreams, like phantoms, fade away?
And do the tears of night conceal the day?
A cascade of questions, like a river\'s flow,
Drowning the poet in an undertow.
Why does hope, a fragile ember\'s gleam,
Vanish-like whispers in a haunting dream?
Answers unfold in the dance of despair,
Where the echoes of anguish fill the air.
Does the pen, a dagger, carve wounds so deep?
And do the shadows in the poet\'s soul creep?
The poet, a vessel of melancholy lore,
Asks the void: \"What purpose does sorrow store?\"
Does the ache of existence find reprieve?
Or is sorrow the only truth one can believe?
In the tapestry of time, where shadows play,
The poet weaves verses in shades of grey.
Why does the heart, like a raven\'s plume,
Beat a dirge for a poet drenched in gloom?
Answers linger in the hallowed halls,
Where darkness and beauty entwine in thralls.
Does the soul, in sorrow, find its rebirth?
Or is the poet condemned to wander the earth?
As the night unfolds its velvet wings,
The poet ponders life\'s mysterious strings.
Why does the abyss, in its silent room,
Embrace a poet forever drenched in gloom?
The echoes fade, swallowed by the night,
The weary poet does seek a respite.
Does redemption bloom in the shadow\'s tomb?
Or is the poet condemned to eternal gloom?