Verse 'n' Veil

Upon the gnarled and twisted spire, 
A shadow rests, a spectral pyre. 
Its feathers black as midnight’s veil, 
A silent hymn, a mournful tale. 

The barren branch, a brittle throne, 
Bows to the weight of the unknown. 
The wind, a ghostly, whispered cry, 
Circles the raven’s watchful eye. 

Its gaze is sharp, its presence stark, 
A flame aloft in endless dark. 
The world beneath, a hushed expanse, 
Caught in its cold, unyielding trance. 

No stars dare shine, no moonlight gleams, 
The earth is still, as if in dreams. 
Yet in the void, its voice shall rise, 
A broken hymn to shrouded skies. 

“O mortal souls,” it seems to call, 
“Beware the night, for shadows fall. 
The hour is nigh, the fates conspire, 
The world shall bow to ash and fire.” 

Its cry, a harbinger of woe, 
A dirge for things we’ll never know. 
A fleeting glimpse, a fleeting stay, 
Before it spreads its wings of gray. 

With one great sweep, it takes to air, 
A phantom borne on winds of despair. 
The branch it leaves bends low, bereft, 
A silent mark of what was left. 

And so it fades, the raven’s flight, 
Into the folds of endless night. 
Its mystery, a shadow’s art, 
Still lingers deep within the heart. 

For who can say what truths it bears, 
What hidden doom, what whispered cares? 
The lone raven, prophet of the skies, 
A haunting omen with ancient eyes.