As bartered I, adrift, to flee a black merciless sky, in open crept, cruel, tenderer sleep past right over me;
left me so still in a sole erected crude crypt of a shared, cozy, piecemeal nest’s undue strewn, wintry debris.
Down, I walked, thus, the parallel broken cobbled road to the undying ember pale glow of the Old Crow Tavern,
for keen, or for so compelled, to rather now slip empty bitter ails within this comely ancient stone-walled cavern.
Since once our 13th strikes, it serves only hollowed dark-casts and hosted revelry leaves it wholly faded,
as due comes a primeval magic to cloak it in all plans, paths, and memories, but of love’s pitiful pall-shaded.
Heard, o’er even one odd remnant echo, no lively tunes carried on and were spirited talks, alike, long dead,
and I craved this tonal tonic, for to out-drown, all yet hallowed refrains running draining rounds in my head;
to chase back torrid, monkhooded haunts of late untamed morrows, distilled into sorrow’s phantom stake
did so stoke, savage, a come, in stead, evermore unquenchable thirst, I came ever more so desperate to slake.

A fair, raven-haired, willowy omni-keep tended in rote’s trance to a few, too, lone, fogged in stragglers,
since catered to too known well narrowed whims of chance’s, too, luckless, out worn to hoary travelers.
As balm, surefire, did trust, no relic ashes of any fresher snake oils were sought, just dusted cellars fine stocked,
so no inviting glances extended alight for matched first welcoming-til-dousing-rays-of-dawn gazes to be locked.
And her’s the lonely sharp in sight yet could imbibe teeming world’s current so alien to her own crafted sphere,
hence oft openly closed by more full, filling visions shone brazen over many, over-wide paces of- now here,
in this twisted tomb of but wardens of breath and blood, did which brim her rusted cast-iron cauldron of gold-
six distant grave, disenchanted deep, about a tireless nursed hearth, come only to sooner see both grown cold. 

All cleaved to muted pact, the only words to be traded were in moot deals with the cloven fallen reigning within,
and in outward grace, faith all, save our own, settled sins paid just slithered sly by a rising artisan liar’s wry grin.
As raised defensive vessels to sink each true leveling nightshaded forked spear to back to tame in its scabbard,
but it seemed every bred deft ruinous beast trod stout waves of downed elixirs brewed so strong for us shattered.
Til to, in vein, yet searing of choice poison picked unwitting, come, miles more than fore, pierced, raw and ware,
coursed three mealy made too slavish to wholly swallow curses, as diabolically ordered, unleavened and square:

A mesmeric arc of a clock’s nickel pendulum told but time had wound it down too to delusive disrepair,
for was its each steadfast second-long journey avowed another eternalized hour were we to forced fare.
Still, as the witching swept past clean unheeded, as shared one left sprung hope’s barrels were yet tapped,
the arcane den stayed as near barren of the bone-weighted, but came asudden too, to eerily dense packed,
by stricken spectres of who here too bided, til too late passed, paralytic passages in yielded parched shells of yore
and their long free and clear footfalls yet creaked the rhythmic sole sounds on the gnarl knotted timber slat floor.
Each paced akin a vagrant at sea too, so too straight to a scarred oak table carved with their last given name,
reserved, til out-scried all futile, fictive reasons why, yet needed sincere, within the fickle, uncertain flame,
of its newest antique white candle cascading its dregs, in the final call of a nigh-defeated perseverant pillar,
to ages ago over-shroud a sturdier, sterling, tear-polished stick of untarnished, medieval-wrought silver.

From thicker air, as foreseeably might follow, ominous icy drafts mingled with fitful niched lanterns’ dim lights,
spiked solid an evasive epiphany so plain- no neat drip of wax or cask next could unpass such stale, grim nights.
Squandered moments trickled inert by, as inconceivable, tally swift to volumes oceanic, not painlessly reckoned,
for in wait on bank til humors swirl anew, the flow will indeed not accommodate by a rate shelved-til-beckoned.
And burns steeped, so too will bear, til so pure borne, yet as not damned as so to too mimic stiff shackles of brick,
aft streamlet trailed a wet-as-not pewter tankard to edge, my dewy fingertips met on a penitent, gasping wick
ere I imparted trace, a drier parting smile, as needed be, to my fellow forlorns’ sixth senses, for else went unseen,
while willed fervent, for us each, hence no solace sought forth, enow, to conjure sure at hand this ghastly scene.

Yet once crossed, did my eyes to the sage proprietor alit, perched ever, atop a bowing, modest, blackthorn door,
and beheld firm an aged cedar-scratched obsidian pair, intense, in return, intuiting the primal essence of my core.
Prayed I, if not in lieu, too, my infinite beholden debt for his chilling realm tendered in a quiet bidding to mend,
in an open stay for cardinal grieving indulged, but more yet for a stop, wise in deed, inspired cut off shy of no end.
Up, I retraced, then, the quaint cobblestones to my peaceful, crisp linens of joint cryptic remains just remade,
intent to slip out in stilling morn’s haze; so, if tab racked of willful wagers unwon holds still out unwholly paid.
Yet fore nearing nod’s amenable wink cast twilight’s thinned leaden veil into spectral light mist of lifted daybreak,
was this stirred soul never more at rest, as but held did, in the nick, lay over-weary nevermore in yestereve’s wake.

_{Disclaimer: I had never read any Edgar Allen Poe before writing (most of) this, but, of course, had heard of “The Raven” and knew I knew the gist of what I believed were its first couple of lines. I wrote my piece based on the stencil used in the cover photo, but though I couldn’t recall a specific story, I was never under the illusion that it was based on an entirely original concept. And I’m sure there are multiple stories incorporating a similar concept, but I became (mostly afterwards) paranoid that I had absorbed more knowledge of Poe’s work through indirect sources over my lifetime than I realized and had, unintentionally, over-copied his basic idea. I finally braved reading “The Raven” to confirm or deny this, and was relieved that they weren’t as comparable, conceptually, as I feared. (Or in quality, but I never dared to dream, let alone fear, equality in that regard.) But I certainly noted some similarities- more broadly, with both being about heartbreak, but more specifically, with both having blackbirds perched over doors looking into people’s cores in the dark of night. I can say with almost 100% conviction that these are coincidences- I know I knew that in his, a raven came to his door at midnight dreary while he was weak and weary- but I am pretty sure I never knew details of what happened past that and definitely didn’t know the finer ones of how he articulated them. However, now that I have read “The Raven” and watched The Fall of the House of Usher on Netflix, I think I may have conflated multiple stories of his. The title of the latter didn’t sound familiar to me, but I have likely heard at least the basic idea of its bar/bartender before and it is quite possibly the misnamed reason I kept ‘wearily’ thinking about Poe when, and after, writing this. That said, I have now read a synopsis of “The Fall of the House of Usher” and don’t see anything about a bar in it, but I know the TV show pulled from other Poe work as well- their bartender was most certainly meant to be the eponymous raven personified/devilified (for the record, my crow is meant to be mostly morally neutral/perhaps inclined to good), but where they got the overall bar bit from, and if it was indeed from this or other stories of his, I don’t know. But while I still don’t think the similar concepts are the same, I also have no trouble believing that, at some point, something of his filtered into my awareness enough to plant a seed or two. And if I owe him any degree of credit, I want to be sure to give it. For the record. I am not, by any means, suggesting my work rivals his in any way other than, potentially, a shared-ish broad premise and a blackbird. I have now read “The Raven” in full, and it was humbling, even without my harboring delusions of my writing being all that grand to begin with. And, after reading his piece, I did add the last two lines to my poem specifically to squeeze in the word ‘nevermore’ as a more explicit homage to his work. And as always, it is meant as a show of respect, even if I can’t be confident the writers I draw from, and thus make ‘nods’ to, wouldn’t just prefer to be left well out of such drivel. As a last caveat, out of the intent of fairness, I do feel like my ‘evermore’ line must have ‘flown’ into my mind indirectly from “The Raven”, even though I thought I was just thinking about Taylor Swift at the time, who I intentionally make a nod to, even if often very subtle, in *everything* I write. When I read “The Raven”, ‘nevermore’ definitely rang a loud bell, which strongly suggests that ‘evermore’ was also already floating around in my head as a ‘Poe’- associated word. And, as Poe’s name was clearly popping into my mind while writing this, I don’t believe in this coincidence. I, at least, could definitely choose worse writers to stalk the shadows of with my own aspirational pen.}

I bargained to fly beyond merciless skies, but sleep crept past right over me,
left me still adrift in my erected crypt of our shared cozy nest’s raw debris.
So I walked the broken cobbled road down to the Old Crow Tavern,
to rather slip my bitter ails within this ancient stone-walled cavern.
After the stroke it serves only the empty dark and its revelry is full faded,
as a primeval magic cloaks it then from the paths of all but the shaded.
No lively tunes carried on and spirited talks were long dead,
and I craved this tonic to drown the hallowed refrains in my head;
to chase searing haunts of late tomorrows distilled to phantom’s poison stake,
siring an evermore unquenchable thirst, I was, ever more, desperate to slake.

A raven-haired keep tended in rote’s trance to a few too lone stragglers,
as catered to the narrowed whims of chance’s too luckless worn travelers.
No relic ashes of fresh snake oils were sought, just dusted cellars fine stocked,
so no inviting glances were extended alight for welcoming gazes to be locked.
And her’s the lonely in sight to imbibe world’s current beyond her own sphere,
so oft openly closed by more filling visions waiting over many paces of where,
in this twisted tomb for the living that brimmed her pewter cauldron of gold,
the gravely distant found disenchanted deep only came to grow cold.

All kept to silent pact the only words to be traded were with the fallen within,
and to faith, all save our own sins paid due just slithered by a liar’s wry grin.
So raised vessels to sink each piercing trident spear to tame in its scabbard,
but the ruined beasts treaded stout waves of elixirs brewed for the tattered,
til coursed 3 curses square: judgments over-lenient of days flown wicked fast,
prophecy of the lost’s diviner ahead due our exile to their deconsecrated past,
and, to clinch laden breaths paved way to gallows, a sirenic rope swung loose,
as pulled, coiled conviction fates by now did to new til to mortal’s fitted noose.

The arc of a clock’s nickle pendulum told time had wound it down to disrepair,
as was its each second long journey avowed another eternal hour to bear,
still the witching swept past clean unheeded as hope’s casks were yet tapped,
and the den stayed near barren, but came asudden too, to eerily dense packed,
with spectres of who too bided, til too late passed, stuck passage here before,
and their clear steps creaked sole sounds on the knotted timber slat floor,
as paced aimless too, so to too a scarred oak table carved with their name,
reserved til scried all futile, fictive reasons within the fickle, uncertain flame,
of its candle cascading the last dregs of a nigh defeated pillar,
to long ago shroud its sterling tear-tarnished stick of medieval wrought silver.

In the air to follow, an ominous chill mingled with scarce lanterns’ dim lights,
stirred epiphany so plain, no drip of wax or ale could unpass such grim nights,
As burns steeped will be so borne, yet as not damned as stiff shackles of brick,
aft streamlet trailed flagon to edge, my dewy fingertips met on a penitent wick,
ere I imparted a trace parting smile to my fellow forlorn to be sensed if unseen,
fore willed it, fervent, our final solace sought to conjure this ghastly scene.

Yet once crossed, did my eyes to the proprietor perched atop the bowed door,
and held steady the cedar-scratched obsidian pair intently intuiting my core.
I prayed too my beholden debt for his realm tendered and bidding to mend,
in its open stay for cardinal grieving, but more yet for a stop cut shy of no end.
Then I retraced cobblestones up to my crisp linens of cryptic remains remade,
to slip still morning’s haze, if tab racked of wagers lost holds still unwholly paid.
Yet fore nod’s wink cast twilight’s thinned veil to light mist of lifted daybreak,
was I never more rested, as then did lay weary nevermore in yestereve’s wake.

First- to whet the noir wistful:
hearty judgments with legs, over-lenient, poured til
full-bodied marinated in rich, over rued of rare red anointed
finest days, condemned to a fanciful dined, whined of, past,
which- with all paler vintages coupled, if by any
old drier spice-favored til even mildest, palatably sating–
dashed by ere in fair flights, remind, for good, wicked fast;

second- to give the cream their heaven high over due:
glazing prophecies, sealed and plated heavy, with no measures
half, of the departed’s diviner all seasons more to pass
pleasing to their minted fresh refined sweet selecting taste,
by flawless reason of a cleansing exile, an edenic churn slow concocted,
to a decreed deconsecrated consumed, as bargain-crate off-sans-color,
soured, as did so utter, in discontented waste.

and last- to set salty store for mighty and main looming gallows:
as begun in shallow sighs, an acclaimed, globe-over, sirenic,
for morsel-laden, saucy dish of threading strands of lime bast
aswinging, over a loath parting-bound trap, low and loose;
as pulled, coils conviction their meatier fate brisk, at latest well by now,
did to angelic new til to here still, so cooked as unprepared,
mere stewing blander mortal’s custom-fixed noose.