A Silent Foreboding

I shall have written to you of the black,

ere chants of pain with cries of woe are twined

Foreboding ill in sullen bitterness,

in Death's dour hand will I have written then

How words may smite when thoughts all bite amain,

the sore body made more akin to corpse

With loathsome stench amidst unlatched decay

a prayer austere will I have woven then

What long has lacked the strength of voice now rears,

in spelling out makes secret poison stir

A deathly strain, in coarse rags through it slumber,

bedecked with loam, grim fate metes out afresh

So fierce a Beast the cry appears anon,

with wings outspread frail hope is wont to batter

It may so be the tomb is far too precious: invitingly, its charms their hold bid tighten...

In silence stern will I have penned it then,

a brooding prayer composed of sacred woe

Ere soul is risen to the folds of black

and on my doorstep death vouchsafes to tread

I will have written to you of the black, surreptitiously, nay, maliciously...