Dead Inspiration

Sitting in my chambers, my thoughts making me a consumption
Something caught my attention
I heard something fall
inside, maybe the hall?
no, outside I'm sure
I looked out my window, and saw a bit of what I thought was fur
And then saw a raven lying on the ground
Somehow through the rain I heard it fall making the faintest sound
And it's pounding through my head like a freight train
That sound mixed with the rain
Is it dead?
I wondered as I laid it on my bed
I checked for a heart beat
No such murmur, deathly cold despite the heat
I wasn't sure why I became saddened
I soon then realized it was my inspiration
Such a mysterious creature, inspired one man,
Who in turn, inspired many a fan
But now here it lays,
Dead in my hand
It occasionally flew by in earlier days
But now will soon turn into sand
Perhaps poetry is not for everyone
But that raven was for someone
But now what's the use to write?
If I've lost all inspiration?