Evermore

A twist on The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered, a mind so bleary,

Over many a street, and cobblestone more

I tried to recall, with frustration, the house's hazy location,

Eyes focused upon a fixation, a fixation out of memory's score.

"'Tis a bother," I murmured, "this object out of memory's score—

                I know I remembered it before."

Ah! suddenly it restored and I, happy I hadn't ignored,

Stumbled to the stairs, and there I swore

To force out my stomach's knots; - to ignore sorrow in all spots

To silence the other thoughts- the ones that fell upon the floor—

For all the notions that caught my throat and fell upon the floor

                Anonymous there for evermore.

And the soft, moaning, hinges and the purple curtains with fringes

Elated him- fated him with fantastic fear that swallowed him like War;

Then presently, with a sensation upsetting, I realized I was regretting,

"Poor, miserable fretting! His grief guilts me and my memory's score—

It guilts me and my memory's score;—

                'Tis new; I do not remember it before."

I could not help but walk nearer; Misery's veil then grew clearer,

"Sir," called he, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact that I was napping, and you so gently came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here he opened wide the door;—

                I was frozen there, evermore.

Perpetually he stuck staring, incessantly he stood crumbling, despairing,

And it was then I gathered all of the thoughts upon the floor;

Then whispered his name quietly, drifting of anxiety entirely,

Subsequent a millennia, he replied tiredly, "Lenore?"

And there my murmur answered securely, "Lenore!"—

                'Twas all we uttered, and nothing more.

Hastily back he paced, and with all little mustered control he placed

Himself down in his chair along the books, his name my lips thrice bore.

"Surely," muttered he, panicked-ly, "surely that is something at my window lattice:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore—

                'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

As he said, he commenced the window the wind blew against,

There entered the notorious Raven, consumer of gore;

If gore meant a soul eviscerated true; seeming but hardly liberated;

Simply offering honesty whole that obliterated a memory's score—

Eradicated Fantasy by shredding a false memory's score—

                But for then he merely perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Azure irises paper-thin and alabaster-white skin,

Could not combat the grave truth the Raven bore.

"Thou appeareth to be Beelzebub's beast," shook he, "to state the least,

Night's priest! Thy wretched talons persist into Pallas, and into my feeble core—

Speak thy name out of thy accursed beak, spare me of thy gore!"

                Quoth the Raven, "Evermore."

So plainly put the Raven there acquainted only with a glare,

With as much quiet- as much quiet as a silent roar;

A name that dismembered him and caused him to remember,

And sprinkled hot embers upon a fragile memory's score—

Hath Misery's veil stronger over his memory's score—

                His soul would not writhe upon the floor.

"Cease thy wrathful reality!" I choked, "He doth not deserve thy brutality,

Leave him to Misery's veil and his forgotten lore."

My invisible voice must have extracted his madness- he acted—

With mania caught distracted, he cried, "Have you my Lenore?—

Thou art a terrible ghastly Raven—indeed, you have my Lenore!"

                Returned the Raven, "Evermore."

The Raven's singular word near passed my ears as absurd,

The bird is known to speak truth without fail, and nothing more,

But it possessed control over me not, or else I would have forgot

Each and every thought perpetually held in my memory's score—

Every notion that remained after, always in my memory's score—

                Now the truth: 'tis the Raven I abhor.

There Pallas sat, apathetic, perhaps enjoying this as merely poetic,

Perchance studying a soul's parts entitled as gore;

When it was answers I pursued, she said nothing to allude

And her empty words accrued to naught; 'twas then I swore—

Never trust the truthful Raven, that I was sure and swore

                Upon this, for evermore.

The Raven's eyes burned black, and there my love lay slack

In his cushion chair, like an ashen corpse (or something more);

Violently the air began to shake, fiercely my body began to quake

As I felt the last of his sanity break, and crushed his feeble core,

The nothingness crumbled, as did his poor, feeble core

                Left broken, forevermore!

Then, methought it all ended, the Raven's wrath suspended

Above his victim's crown, and this torture would be no more.

'Tis this thought that was wrong, and the bird continued silently along

All the while the ashen corpse screamed his misery song upon the floor.

Dost thou quaff, wretched Raven? Dost thou quaff my lover's soul upon the floor

                With great pleasure, forevermore?

"Priest of Night!" cried I, "Disperse thyself!—take flight!

Enough! Dost thou not see his anguish? Dost thou not see I adore

Him, albeit I myself am no longer flesh? Fie! Let him start afresh—

Recede thou relentless thresh—let me suffer, I truly implore:

Thou sadistic pleasure is quite adequate—please—to you I implore!

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Priest of Night!" cried I, "Disperse thyself!—take flight!

Hark, my Father! To You my heart I pour—

I pour all of my will, my might, call your angels down to fight,

Call them down, O Lord! I cannot bear such an awful sight, for I am Lenore—

Call them down, O Lord! The Raven hears all I think, for I am Lenore,

                Lover of his victim, part of him, forevermore.

"And what of you, Pallas?" I screamed, but she was callous—

She did not note the talons in her shoulders as he sat over the door,

Nor the rather exquisite torment with any slight discontent

But, in fact, seemed fairly indifferent to the spiritual gore,

The awful, heart-twisting spiritual gore

                That turned pallid and ashen upon the floor.

I am deprived, now, as God's angels never arrived—

Deprived of beautiful eternity, stuck in-between as before;

"'Tis true? Am I trapped in pain? Doth Darkness devour my veins?"

Silence first, and 'tis then I feel the feathery chains; I am his Lenore;

The bird doth not need to answer, for I already know: I am his Lenore.

                Quoth the Raven, "Evermore."