In the realm of midnight's shroud,
A tale unfolds, a whisper loud.
Amidst the echoes of the ancient lore,
A poet's heart, bleak and evermore.

Within the chambers of a haunted mind,
Where spectral musings eerily bind,
A specter weaves its spectral thread,
Through verses written, words unsaid.

The pendulum swings, a rhythmic dance,
In corridors of melancholic trance.
Ravens caw, in the mist they soar,
Guiding the poet to the Stygian shore.

Quoth the raven, nevermore,
As shadows dance upon the floor.
A tapestry woven in sorrow's loom,
Threads of woe in the poet's room.

The masquerade of life's façade,
A phantom waltz in the void so broad.
Beneath the moon's pallid glow,
Ephemeral dreams in the undertow.

Haunted, the heart with a spectral wail,
In the cryptic depths where emotions sail.
A rhapsody of despair, a serenade,
In the sepulcher where memories fade.

The specter of lost love lingers,
In the verses where the poet's soul lingers.
A dirge composed with ink and quill,
In the poet's haven, an eternal chill.

Midnight's symphony, a requiem's breath,
As the poet walks the path of death.
In the sepulcher of poetic lore,
A soul entwined forevermore.
© Brian C. Jobe