Upon the sepulchre\'s cold realm despair
Where ebony ravens cleave the air,
A rime of sorrow deep and rare,
Unfurls its shroud with a chilling stare.
What phantom whispers weave this snare,
In this cryptic tale of endless woe?
In sepulchres, where ancient echoes dwell,
Dost thou commune with shades of ages past?
Why doth the heart, in melancholy, swell,
As shadows gather, and daylight is cast?
Have thy dreams withered, like a flower frail,
Or do they linger, like a haunting tale?
Beneath the pallid dome\'s ghostly ray,
Why doth the heart in solitude pine?
Does it seek solace in the light of day,
Or doth it revel in darkness malign?
Within the depths of sorrow\'s design,
What elusive truths in the abyss entwine?
In cryptic chambers, where echoes betray,
What secrets slumber in silence profound?
Doth regret in spectral form hold sway,
Or doth forgiveness in hallowed ground?
In the heart\'s recesses, with memories abound,
What shades of remorse in shadows are found?
In the cathedral of the midnight air,
Where echoes of lament weave through despair,
The plaintive chords of sorrow\'s harp resound,
As questions linger, lost and never found.
Shall answers rise like phantoms from the mist?
Or are they swallowed by the amethyst?
Within the labyrinth of human thought,
Where introspection\'s tendrils are oft sought,
Does wisdom bloom like flowers in the spring,
Or doth it wither, lost to time\'s cruel wing?
Why seek solace in the shadows\' gloom?
Is not the light a pathway from the tomb?
With a quivering pen, the poet seeks reprieve,
In verses woven, like a funeral shroud,
Doth sorrow e\'er its icy grip retrieve,
Or, like a phantom, dissipate in a cloud?
What answers lie beyond the poet\'s gaze?
In riddles profound, the enigma stays.
Thus, in the dimness of the cryptic night,
A rime of sorrow weaves its silent flight,
Entwining hearts in threads of dark despair,
As questions linger in the haunted air.
Shall answers rise like spectres from the tomb?
Or do they vanish in the shadow\'s gloom?