Lenore Nevermore

Once within a tavern scheming, while the ale grew flat and gleaming,

As the fire’s dying shadows crawled the floorboards near the door.

While we whispered, closely leaning, sparks of revolution teeming,

Dreams of tyrants bleeding, broken—thrones and crowns cast to the floor.

“Just a spark,” I uttered, grinning, “then their rule becomes folklòre—

Only that, and nothing more.”

Then there came a sound of tapping, taloned feet through silence rapping,

Like a herald sent from judgment, gliding coldly o’er the floor.

Black as ink and sharp of feature, death become a wingèd creature,

Lurking like a silent preacher—eyes that pierced what came before.

Stood she silent near the table, spoke the name that legends swore—

“‘Tis I Lenore Nevermore.”

Now my friends lie pale and broken, all our dreams a curse unspoken,

And her shadow stretches longer, swallowing the tavern floor.

No escape, no blade, no pleading—only heartbeat, slow and bleeding,

Only wings in darkness beating, as she circles evermore.

I draw one last breath and whisper, hers the name I still implore—

“It was Lenore Nevermore.”