The raven’s shadow glides across the page,
Its midnight wingbeats toll a darker chime;
Your words—obsessions inked in grief and rage—
Bend broken clocks and twist the threads of time.
In chambers hung with sorrow’s velvet gloom,
You set a trembling heart to dreadful pace;
A tapping omen at a locked-up room
Reveals the specter no one dares to face.
You birthed the labyrinth of fear and mind,
Where truth lies hidden under whispered lies;
A sleuth with logic sharp, precise, refined,
Unmasks the fiends that mortal thought denies.
O Poe—your tales still haunt, though years have flown,
For darkness loves the voice that called it home.