• the night turned dark, wet and stormy
    the bright is lost, it lost its glory
    my dark wings take me through many
    a quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore
    inside the mind of a man who mourns for lenore

    his mind is liberated from the lost normality
    the gothic godfather of the renegated youth
    the master of the feathered pen hails insanity
    for not finding deep inside his own truth
    inside the mind, where feelings grind
    deep inside his only one truth

    the winds are strong and it is hard to fly
    the view is blurred and dark to hide or fight
    my wings take me through the dark river of the lie,
    no light in thoughts to help my sight
    just one sweet sorrow for the lost lenore-
    the rare and radient maiden whom the angels name lenore-
    nameless here for evermore

    the window opened and I entered,
    the storm brought a memory:
    an artist painting an oval portrait,
    his wife poses, silent and patient..
    a twist of faith or lost reality
    the painting was done and straight,
    stiff and perfectly beautiful
    as shall be his wife for today
    tomorrow, for evermore..
    bleached, still and perfectly beautiful
    she shall stay

    I blindly follow my instincts and feel
    a parcel of the frail feelings written
    on the liberating controlling wheel
    circling time wandered by black kitten..
    I perched above a chamber door-
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above a chamber door-
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    The one who I torment stands still
    asking innocent but needfull questions
    such answers were not mine to give until
    my name was asked with such cordial repetitions:
    'Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
    Quoth the raven "nevermore"

    his mind is tainted with deception,
    much losses gave his creative mind
    just what he needed, although the session
    of absorving inspiration and lost time
    corroded slowly his suffering yet warm heart..
    he was innocently forced to create what some call art
    and other call disfunctional writings and meanings torn apart.
    indeed, it is the finest human art.

    his pacience ran out and he started to yell
    "Prophet!" he said,
    "thing of evil!–prophet still, if bird or devil!-"
    his questions sounded truthfully the words from
    one who mourns and needs somewhat to hold on.
    he asks questions unanswered for generations
    and unanswered still, there is only one answer that can be given
    and three times three I answered in relation
    and three times three my beak was opened
    'Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
    Quoth the raven "nevermore"

    and I still am sitting, never flitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above the chamber door.
    the light above projects my shadow on the floor
    tired and hopeless, he lies near the bookcase
    sitting on the dark red carpet where my shadow floats in daze
    and from that shadow his soul shall be lifted - ah, nevermore!