Self-deification

 
And a raven came wrap wrap wrapping on my door,
And I called “who’s there and what for?”,
And the raven called back but as a murder of crows,
It was Raum at my door who beckons and bellows,
A set of odd fellows arranged in rows,
And a melancholic song my quartet did play upon chello’s.


They played a requiem, low and slow,
A tune that whispered secrets only the dead could know.
The air grew heavy with the scent of decay,
As Raum’s hollow laughter led the melody astray.
The crows in their murder, with eyes like coal,
Bore witness to the weight of my trembling soul.

Their wings beat in time to the chello’s lament,
A hymn for the lost, a sorrowful descent.
I stood in the doorway, frozen in place,
As Raum’s shadow stretched with a grinning face.
“What have you come for?” I asked, though I knew,
For the crows only call when there’s debt overdue.

So I now stood standing amid my sinew;
A pact now remembered amid a memory askew,
I asked for my sanity but Raum granted only vanity,
A soul that ruptured at the seams with screams of pity,
I cried out “Eheieh”, though bruised and sallow I lay,
A sordid reminder of a tender I have yet to pay,
My currency no good here as I lie before myself, on a scale of wind chimes and filth,
Now the black cloaked rider, comes on a pale horse,
Extends a bony finger and points North,
He bring about a plague that leaves my throat swollen and hoarse.

So I bind my grimoires and gather my scrolls as I plot a course,
I grin wickedly as I stand in the shadow of my divorce,
But not from lover or partner but from sanity itself,
All I could grasp onto falls away upon my very delph,
A query, a quandary, a perplexing perception,
If time at all was passing what was the echoes of its’ lesson,
Though I now sit but a corpse barely thinking,
And this house made of paper is moist and sinking,
Could this be the memory of a tear in the fabric of life?
Or am I simply a paradox fixated on its’ own strife?

A paradox, perhaps, or a riddle of the divine,
I trace circles in the ashes, searching for the line.
The line that separates the living from the lost,
A soul auctioned cheaply but paid at the highest cost.
The rider waits, his patience colder than frost,
A silent reminder of the tether I’ve crossed.

The scrolls speak in tongues, ink bleeding with intent,
Each sigil a whisper of a life misspent.
Raum’s crows perch on my brittle crown,
Their cries echo loudly as the heavens frown.
The chimes in the filth ring hollow and thin,
A melody of madness that rattles within.

I scribble my name on parchment with bile,
A contract etched in agony and guile.
The walls of this paper house ripple and tear,
As the pale rider hums a hymn of despair.
My delph is a chasm, a fractal of fate,
Where every step forward opens another gate.

A tear in the fabric, or a prison of thought?
If the clock has stopped, what battles have I fought?
I grin through the shadows, my sanity betrayed,
A paradox unending, a debt still unpaid.
And as the rider points North with his skeletal hand,
I walk into the abyss, where I’ll forever stand.