In a darkened chamber
shadows twist and writhe
Pale light spills through cracked panes
illuminating dust motes
The air, thick with the scent of age and decay
A raven, black as a void,
perches on the windowsill
Its eyes, piercing, stare into the soul
Murmurs of lost hopes and unfulfilled
dreams linger in the corners
Quill in hand, he writes feverishly
Ink, like blood, stains the parchment
with thoughts
Driven by an insatiable
hunger for the macabre
Loneliness clings to him,
a relentless spectre
Tormented by visions of the departed
He seeks consolation in the written word,
an eternal struggle
Haunted by silence, he listens
To groanings of the damned
and reverberating sorrows
He captures their essence,
binding them in prose
His heart, a labyrinth of grief and longing
Beats with a melancholy cadence
He exists in liminal spaces
between life and death
In the end,
he remains
A solitary figure,
surrounded by the phantoms of his creation
Eternally bound to the darkness,
a poet of the night.